Rush
by Linnie McCary
Summary: In California's Mother Lode, Sam pits himself against a malevolent spirit, while an injured Dean unravels the mystery of a little girl's murder.
1. Chapter 1

_In California's Mother Lode, Sam pits himself against a malevolent spirit, while an injured Dean unravels the mystery of a little girl's murder._

**A/N**: This story takes place in Season 2, between "Road Kill" and "Heart," and includes spoilers for both episodes, particularly "Road Kill." I took liberties with time, assuming "Road Kill" to have taken place in April, and "Heart" to have taken place in June.

There are also spoilers for other episodes, particularly "Devil's Trap," "In My Time of Dying" and "Born Under a Bad Sign."

Coarse language abounds in "Rush," and at least one person breaks the Third Commandment. Perhaps others, too—people _and_ Commandments. It's never my intention to offend, and I hope I don't.

**Disclaimer**: I make no claim on _Supernatural, _its concept or its characters, which do not belong to me. No copyright infringement is intended, and I make no profit from these efforts.

**Rush**

**Chapter One**

"_Daniel Alan Matson!" _

_The little brown-haired boy and his friend were playing under the big tree in the park, laughing and shrieking beneath its sturdy limbs when they heard his mother's strident call._

"_Danny! If I have to tell you one more time to get in the car before your father is ready to leave…" The threat was left hanging, but Danny recognized the end of play-time nonetheless._

"_I gotta go," he said, panting a little from the impromptu game of tag. "'Bye!"_

_He shoved his friend lightly on the shoulder as a token of young affection and turned to meet his mother, who stalked angrily toward him from the street._

"_I'm coming, Mom!" he said, but she was already there under the shade of the old oak, her firm hand on his shoulder giving him a little shake. _

"_We aren't going to be home for another four hours, young man. What did I tell you about getting dirty?" _

_Julie Matson squatted beside her son, clucking as she wiped the sweat off his brow and fussed at the fresh stains on his t-shirt. "Danny, you're a mess!" she exclaimed. "How on earth did you get so filthy so fast?"_

"_We were just playing, Mom," the seven-year-old said with a shrug, fidgeting under her ministrations before twisting with a grin and waving. "'Bye!" he said again._

_Julie frowned, tossing a look over her son's shoulder but seeing nothing more than the scarred trunk of the oak. An icy breath of air swirled suddenly around her, and she shivered at its strange caress. _

"_Who are you talking to?" she asked, getting slowly to her feet, eyes uneasily searching the empty park. If there was some damned pedophile after her kid-- _

"_Her." Danny pointed to a spot beneath the tree, and Julie's frown deepened, her grip tightening on the little boy's arm. _

"_Danny, you know I don't like it when you lie to me," she said, and he turned a pouting face up to her._

"_Mom!" he whined. "I'm not lying! We were just playing!"_

"_When we get home, you're going straight to bed. No TV, no Xbox, no anyth—"_

_She felt the air around her chill again suddenly, this time mostly to her right and accompanied by an odd creaking sound. Julie stepped back nervously, drawing her son with her as she looked up at the tree, her eyes widening._

_She couldn't scream, her breath clogging her throat, but she clutched at Danny and pulled him close, smothering him against her as he squawked in muffled protest._

_On his way out of the sandwich shop, Brent Matson tucked his billfold into his back pocket with one hand and reached for the car with the other, surprised to find the door handle locked. _

"_Julie?" He stooped a little to look inside, expecting to find his wife and son buckled up and ready to go, but the car was empty. He made a hasty scan of the street, finally spotting Julie and Danny standing under the tree in the park, looking at some sort of bag caught in the branches. Danny's arms were flapping as his mother held him tight against her._

"_Hey!" Brent called to them, feeling his anger flare. They should have been on the road thirty minutes ago, and this was no time to be playing. "Let's go!"_

_Julie cast him a frantic look, and Brent could see the terror on her face even from halfway down the block._

"_Julie?" _

_He moved quickly toward them, frowning as his attention was drawn from his family to the long bag of dark rags hanging oddly from the tree. _

Holy shit!

_Brent began to run, protective arms encircling his wife and son when he reached them, staring up in horrified awe at the man's body dangling from a sturdy oak branch. There was enough of a breeze that the corpse swayed slightly, the rope creaking as it rubbed across bark._

"_Don't look, Danny! Don't look!" Julie moaned piteously, her own eyes riveted to the grisly sight._

_Brent felt his jaw drop open as the pajama-clad body twisted slowly in the wind until he was looking directly up into the bloated face; could see the mottled skin, the protruding tongue. Beside him, Julie looked up, too._

_They screamed together when the dead man's eyes opened. _

-:- -:- -:-

The drive shouldn't have taken more than an hour or so, but once Dean was conked out in the back seat, Sam kept his foot light on the accelerator, taking the winding curves slow and easy, allowing himself to decompress. The past two weeks had been hard going, both physically and emotionally. Spiritually, too, if he allowed himself to think that way—Molly McNamara had asked poignant questions that still made him uncomfortable, mostly because he and his brother had had no answers.

They still didn't know what happened when people were put to rest, still didn't know what happened to spirits when they finally let go. Still could only hope that everyone moved on to someplace better.

_Everyone except their dad_….

Whatever else remained a mystery, Sam knew to his soul that John Winchester had consigned himself to Hell to save his oldest son, and by that very act he had taken Dean along with him. Sam himself was maybe destined for darkness, too, if they believed the signs. Believed their dad.

Dean wouldn't, Sam knew. No matter what their old man had told him, Dean couldn't bring himself to accept there might be evil in his beloved little brother, and for that unquenchable faith Sam was grateful. But it didn't change the facts, and if the facts were that he went dark-side, then Sam needed Dean to end him.

Which brought them right back around to what happened _next_, and there were still no answers. But today, without realizing he had done so, Sam chose not to think about _past _and _next_, accepting for a little while that sometimes there was peace in ignorance, serenity in forgetting. For now, there was just _now._

The route he followed had taken them by interstate down the hill from Reno, then northwest at Colfax into the heart of California's Mother Lode country. There was still snow on the higher elevations, but the day was looking beautiful, all blue sky and sunshine befitting early May in the Sierras. There was fresh growth on the scrub oaks and manzanitas, and here and there Sam thought maybe the poppies were already opening. The early-morning sun spiked obliquely through the pines, throwing long shadows across the foothills into the canyons.

He'd breezed right past the Donner Party Memorial without even slowing down, keeping an eye on the rearview mirror, alert for both the CHP and for any sign that his brother was in pain.

_It was hard seeing Dean in the mirror without flashing back to that night after Jefferson City, Dad in the passenger seat with a bullet in his leg and Dean propped hollow-eyed and boneless against the door in the back, torn up inside by the yellow-eyed demon, telltale blood drooling from his mouth. Just before the truck hit...._

Sam blinked, determinedly brushing the memory away.

Dean definitely looked uncomfortable, jammed against the driver's-side rear door, right leg stretched out across the seat, head bobbing on his chest as he slept. The scrapes on his face had scabbed over and the bruises were already fading, but the knee-brace was going to be a part of him for the next several weeks.

The ER doctor had prescribed complete bed-rest and heavy meds for at least four days, but Dean had insisted on leaving Elko a mere six hours after Sam himself had slid the dislocated kneecap back into place. Sam had managed to keep his brother at the clinic just long enough for a quick McMurray test and to see the x-ray results—there was a potential tear in the medial meniscus, but no breaks in the patella. Still, any fool could tell that a brace wasn't a bad idea, if Dean ever wanted to walk normally and pain-free again. It was his third dislocation of that same knee, after all, not to mention other previous damage.

"It doesn't hurt that bad," the older brother had wheedled from the examination table, more than a little stoned from the painkiller the doctor had given him. "I can probably walk on it—no offense, doc, but can we please just get the hell out of here? C'mon, Sammy. This is no way to spend your birthday."

Dean had made it abundantly clear that there was no way in hell he'd be wearing shorts during his recuperation, so the full-length brace fitted snugly over his jeans. The metal uprights were held in place by four padded Velcro straps, one high on his thigh, two others just above and below his knee, and the last one at his ankle. Although the brace could be set to allow a full range of motion, Dean's was currently locked to keep his knee extended straight for a week. Sam thought it looked ridiculous.

He also bet it hurt like a sonofabitch.

They'd stocked up on OxyContin and those awesomely handy instant cold-packs, set up an appointment they had no intention of keeping with the orthopedic surgeon for the following Tuesday, and hit the road for Reno. They'd found a motel just outside of town and holed up, Sam hoping to stay long enough for Dean to get his feet back under him, figuratively speaking, and long enough for Sam's hands to forget what it felt like shoving his brother's kneecap back where it belonged.

But Bobby had called the second afternoon, and Sam had agreed to investigate the old gold mine out of a simple desire to protect his own sanity. Dean stuck in Nevada, loopy on painkillers and pissed as hell that he'd be wearing _some_ kind of brace for three or four weeks was a combination to try the patience of a saint, and Sam had never claimed to be any such thing. He'd called Bobby's contact to tell him they were coming, and forced his brother to get one more night's recuperative sleep in the cheap motel. Then Sam had stowed everything carefully in the Impala, Dean included, and headed over the pass into California.

The two-lane state route that led from Colfax farther into the back-country was narrow and winding all the way to Grass Valley, and Sam eased the Impala into the turns with unhurried grace.

Spring had hit the foothills fast, he thought idly, noting how prolific the pine pollen was. It was everywhere—on the bushes, on the buildings, even on the pavement. The closer they got to Rattlesnake, the more yellow the road appeared, a saffron-colored dust powdering the ground in windswept eddies. It had been unnerving at first, until he'd figured out what it was.

They weren't due to meet their client in Rattlesnake until ten, and even if he stuck to the local roads, avoiding Highway 49, they'd be at the mine by nine-thirty, nine-forty at the latest. The leisurely pace seemed warranted as Sam let himself be lulled by memories of the last time he'd been in the Mother Lode.

_He and Jess had taken the historic route through the Gold Rush country on a long, lazy weekend just before Christmas of their first year together. They'd both finished finals early and Sam had borrowed a buddy's car, making reservations at a bed-and-breakfast in Nevada City, surprising Jess with the romantic gesture. It had cost him a small fortune but was worth every penny when he saw the light it brought to her eyes, the appreciative joy to her smile. _

_It was when he had first realized that maybe she was the one. _

_That night, they'd enjoyed a candle-lit dinner, caught a play at the local repertory theater, and strolled arm in arm down the sidewalks decorated with gas lamps and pine boughs, laughing and holding one another close in the chill December air. After that, they'd pretty much spent the entire weekend in their room, in bed, until it was time to head back to Palo Alto with all the ski traffic. Jess would be celebrating Christmas with her family, and Sam would stay in his dorm room. She'd invited him to join her, of course—her parents wouldn't mind, she'd sworn—but Sam had declined, not yet certain how he felt about spending holidays with families other than his own. Not that his family observed holidays, exactly, and maybe that was why he'd felt uneasy about celebrating with others._

_There sure wasn't any chance he'd be seeing his brother or father. His last conversation with Dean hadn't ended well, and the one with Dad—well, there were worse things than spending Christmas alone, Sam knew. So that's what he'd do. _

Lost in memories, Sam almost missed the turnoff to Rattlesnake, the road winding steeply up out of the river canyon, and he ended up taking the curve a little more sharply than he would have preferred. Dean shifted in the back seat, off-kilter and waking with a start, arms thrashing to catch himself as his body lurched left.

-:- -:--:-

In that unbalanced moment between oblivion and consciousness, Dean was airborne, once again a human pinball being hurled headlong, smashing his way down the staircase of the Browns' haunted house, once again feeling the dreadful pop and pulsing agony as his knee came apart.

He opened his mouth to scream on a sharp intake of breath.

And woke up, his flailing hand finding and latching onto the Impala's front seat.

"Whazzit?" he blurted in alarm, eyes wide, back straightening as he glanced rapidly around him.

What big brother didn't know about how Sam was driving wouldn't hurt him, the younger Winchester decided. No harm, no foul.

"Hey, Dean, we're almost there," Sam said brightly before letting his tone slide into something a little more sympathetic. "How you doing?"

Dean blinked twice, having difficulty focusing as the trees swept by, the car moving swiftly through alternating shadow and light. He slouched against the door with a grimace, scrubbing at his eyes with his right hand, the left still gripping the back of the driver's seat.

"This is _so_ not the way I'm used to using this back seat, Sammy," he groaned, wincing as he resettled his injured leg. The brace kept it from bending at all, and the sole of his boot was wedged against the far door. "I think my ass is asleep."

Sam didn't exactly grimace, but he felt his mouth tighten with distaste. "Less I hear about any of that, the happier I'm gonna be, Dean," he said dryly.

"Dude, what the hell! Stop the car!"

Sam slammed on the brakes, the Impala fishtailing slightly before rocking to a halt in the middle of the road.

"Jesus, Dean! What?" Sam threw the car into park and turned awkwardly in his seat to glare over his shoulder at his brother. The frown-line between Dean's brows was deep as he stared wide-eyed out the window.

"Don't you see it?" he asked incredulously. "It's everywhere!"

_Sulfur!_

No matter where he looked, there was yellow dust, like some demon army had swarmed through and left the telltale sign of its vile presence on every available surface. Even as he watched, he could see it sifting down from somewhere, eddying in the apparent breeze to form a thin, growing layer on the Impala, turning her shiny black a subtle gold.

Dean felt as though he'd been sucker-punched, the air forced from his lungs as he struggled to breathe, to figure out what it might mean.

_Oh, Christ—Sammy in Texas!_

Fighting now not to panic, Dean sought his brother's eyes.

"What are you doin', Sam?" he growled, voice hoarse with dread. "Where are you taking us?"

But Sam's angry glare dialed down to confused and concerned, then flew past sudden comprehension to end up at mildly apologetic. Clear hazel, anyway. Maybe he was even trying not to laugh, and Dean's chest loosened just a little as he finally caught a breath of air.

"It's not sulfur, Dean, I swear to you."

Sam fought hard to keep the grin off his face, knowing exactly why Dean was freaked and not really blaming him one bit. In fact, if their positions were reversed, Sam was pretty sure he'd feel the same way. Plus, his brother was pretty much still doped to the gills with OxyContin, and it was kind of like taking unfair advantage.

Still, it was a little funny…

'It's pollen, Dean."

Dean stared into his eyes a moment longer before the words hit and the older man blinked.

"Say what?"

Nodding, Sam shrugged one shoulder. "It's pine pollen. Said back at the gas station that they hadn't seen it like this in 20 years. Relax, would you?"

It took another ten seconds or so, but Dean finally slumped back against the door, dropping his head to his chest with a weary shake before turning to look out the side window again.

"I gotta tell you, Sammy, I could've sworn…" He huffed a laugh, rubbing a hand over his eyes, wincing. "Last time I'm taking Ox, I swear it."

Sam turned back around and shifted into gear, running the wipers twice to clear the windshield of yellow before setting the Impala in motion once again. "It's not the meds, Dean. But you keep jumping into situations with both guns blazing, and you're gonna have to take the consequences. You're going through painkillers like they were candy."

"You sayin' I'm reckless?" Anger threatened in Dean's voice, and Sam felt his lips tighten again.

"No," he said softly. "I'm saying that I just don't like seeing you hurt."

Green eyes met hazel in the rear-view mirror, and at last Dean nodded, tension draining from his face.

"So," he said, looking back out at the road. "Pollen, huh? Sure as hell looks like sulfur to me."

-:- -:- -:-

Bobby hadn't said much about their client's problem, but his directions had been perfect—no surprise, there—and the brothers found the North Cedar Mine easily enough, tucked back into the trees several miles out of town, on a narrow road that wound through tall pines and scrub oak past a motley collection of houses and outbuildings.

When they reached the proper driveway, however, the forest opened considerably to what had clearly once been a major mining operation. Scattered across the wide gravel expanse were various pieces of rusted equipment—truck cabs, ore-carts and iron rails—abandoned amidst a number of barn-like buildings. A tall, slanted structure built of heavy lumber and rusted metal bracings, vaguely reminiscent of a gallows, rose beside one of the barns, which had been paneled with sheets of corrugated steel that rattled faintly in the morning breeze. Piles of granite slag were heaped along the far side of the yard, where another odd piece of equipment loomed among the trees, reminding Sam vaguely of a gigantic butter churn.

"I think that's the stamp-mill," he said mostly to himself, pointing with his chin. "Local hard-rock gold is in quartz veins inside the granite; they used the stamps to crush the quartz, make it easier to get at the gold."

But Dean was in no mood for lecture or conjecture.

"Where's the guy we're supposed to see?" he grumbled, and Sam pulled the Impala over the gravel and parked beside the most-likely building.

He got out of the car, stepping away and swinging his arms to loosen up, scanning the yard and the surrounding tall pines. He could hear the rush of the breeze high above him, and somewhere, a blue-jay scolded sharply. He'd read once that mines like the North Cedar had denuded acres and acres of forest with their incessant need for wood, burning thousands of trees to convert water to steam power for the nonstop business of retrieving gold from the earth's bowels. Here, it looked like those days were long-since past.

Behind him, Dean was struggling to get out of the car, awkward in the brace with his leg locked straight and still muzzy from the painkillers Sam had forced on him in the early morning.

Sam knew better than to interfere—God help him if he tried to offer a hand. In another week or so, his brother could start using a soft brace to support the injured knee, but for now, it looked like they were both going to have to suffer. No matter how much Sam might want to help, sometimes it was just better to let Dean do on his own whatever it was he wanted to do.

"Hey!" a man's voice called to them from inside the screen door of the mine office. "Sam and Dean, right? Man, am I glad to see you guys!"

-:- -:- -:-

Steve Hartson was in his mid-30s and kinda nondescript, Dean thought. Brown hair, brown eyes, short and stocky. Not fat, exactly, but he clearly suffered from spending too many hours behind a desk. Like he was doing now, with the Winchester brothers sitting across from him, Sam leaning forward attentively and Dean—well, at least Dean was upright. Mostly.

Steve had played baseball back in the day, though, Dean noted idly, taking in the old trophies on the bookcase. Couple of certificates on the walls—some kind of engineering degree from University of Montana and an MBA from Vanderbilt, just the kind of thing to make Sammy feel at home with him. More importantly, though, to Dean's way of thinking, was that the present owner of the North Cedar gold mine seemed like a regular guy, the kind of guy you could have a beer with, shoot the shit after a hard day's work, maybe grill some steaks out in the backya--.

Dean blinked, his eyes slowly refocusing, then pulled himself upright in the chair again while Sam gave him a quick look that read…well, it read, "_Straighten up, jerk_," which was exactly what Dean was trying to do. The smile he gave Sam in return was a little lopsided, and mostly sarcastic.

Little brother was doing all the fact-finding, which suited Dean just fine. The oxycodone was starting to wear off, the throb around his knee beginning to sharpen, but he was still a little fuzzy on the details of what had brought them to the historic mining town of Rattlesnake in the first place. All things considered, he was content to let Sam take the lead.

"The state inspector is coming up from Sacramento tomorrow, and she's going to want to go all the way down to the Forty-Eight," Hartson said cryptically. He seemed nervous, twiddling a mechanical pencil in his right hand. "I just want to make sure that everything's…safe. Bobby Singer said you'd know what I mean."

Sam nodded, sliding his eyes again at his brother. Dean still looked a little out of it, but Sam could see he was at least trying to pay attention. Struggling, but game.

"We do, Mr. Hartson," the younger man said, "but we're kinda short on details. What exactly has been happening here?"

Hartson shifted uncomfortably, and Dean cleared his throat.

"It's all right, Steve," he drawled, voice lazy and nonchalant. "Bobby sent us, remember? Nothing you tell us is going to surprise us, believe me."

Hartson gave each of them a second once-over, eyes pausing briefly on Dean's knee-brace. Watching him closely, Sam saw the exact moment that the mine-owner realized he was desperate and had nowhere else to turn.

"I don't know where to start, exactly…" he said.

"Try the beginning," Sam suggested, suddenly doubting his decision to bring his brother to Rattlesnake. "And can we look at the mine?"

-:- -:- -:-

They'd seen the headframe when they drove in, of course—the tall, slanted wooden structure looming over the yard like a gallows. Now they learned that it sat directly beside the opening of the main shaft, its massive cabling connected to the heavy ore-skips and to the lighter-weight man-skips that had taken miners down on rails into the darkness and brought them back out again.

The Winchesters stood with Steve Hartson at the North Cedar shaft's collar. The tunnel beyond the throat-like opening dropped steeply into the earth, railroad tracks laid out along both sides to handle the skips, long electrical cords snaking away into the depths, naked bulbs dangling from them to provide scant light on the way down. The collar wasn't wide—maybe thirty feet across—and the brothers could see that the shaft narrowed slightly as it went.

Steve told them a lot of history, most of which Dean let pass because it was obvious the mine-owner was stalling, simply too nervous to get started on the real story yet, and because Sam was drinking it all up like the geek-boy sponge he was. Dean was focused on the steep tunnel that plunged into the hard-rock before him—with the brace on his leg, he couldn't see how he'd be going down into the mine any time soon, except maybe by falling.

_Fucking knee_, he thought grimly. Like hell he was going to let Sam out of his sight much, not after their recent wild-ass experiences with demons and demi-gods. Sammy possessed; Dean shot; effing Trickster making fools of them—no way he was leaving them open for something like that again, new protection charms from Bobby or not. Where one brother went, the other was going, too. _But this fucking knee…_

Some of what Steve was saying sank in, however, at least for the time being—the mine-owner was clearly excited about his family history and it livened his story-telling, no matter how dry the details. Still, Dean wished the guy would just cut to the chase.

The North Cedar Mining Company had been established right after the first gold-strike in Rattlesnake, back in 1850, Steve told them. Leland Hartson had almost immediately become the principal shareholder, owning 98 percent of what turned out to be the third highest-producing gold mine in California over the next century.

The mine had operated full-tilt well into the 1950s, ownership passing down through the Hartson family, who had become, understandably, pillars of Rattlesnake society.

It had been Steve's grandfather's decision to shut down operations in 1954, after it became more expensive to mine the ore than the profit warranted. There had been no buyers, and the North Cedar had fallen into abandon, Rattlesnake drying up with it, until Steve had inherited the mine upon his father's recent passing.

"Sorry to hear about your dad," Sam murmured, cutting his eyes at Dean. Even with months gone by, John Winchester's death continued to haunt them both, Dean in particular, the subject still more painful than either of them cared to admit. At the moment, however, Sam's brother seemed distracted by the man-skip on the rails beside them. Made of wood and iron, it was basically a toboggan on wheels designed to carry crews up and down the main shaft. Interesting, yeah, but Sam wondered whether Dean's failure to focus on Steve's story was the result of design or fortune—or still the aftermath of that morning's meds.

"I don't get it," the older brother said abruptly, stirring from his apparent reverie. "You're looking to reopen? To mine more gold?"

Steve shook his head. "No, although I'm sure there's plenty left down there. There's even new technology to leach more ore out of the tailings, too, but it's really cost-prohibitive. No, truth is, I want to turn the North Cedar into a sort of…well, a park, I guess. A tourist attraction, even better than the Empire Mine over in Grass Valley. Chamber wants to revitalize Rattlesnake by making the most out of its history, and the North Cedar is basically what turned a shithole mining camp—pardon my language—into a town. If I can get it up to snuff, and get the proper clearances and permits, the mine can be a huge tourist draw."

"Chamber?" Dean asked through the thinning narcotic haze.

"The Rattlesnake Chamber of Commerce," Steve explained. "It's a bunch of the merchants, you know; most of us have ties to Rattlesnake going back generations. But we've got some new people on the board—I'm one of them, and the Markhams are back in town, now, sort of. Anyway, we've got some ideas about infusing life back into Rattlesnake."

"You want to turn the town into a mining Disneyland," Dean said dryly, and Sam cleared his throat, shooting his brother a chastising glare. _Play nice, Dean. This guy's paying. _

"Sounds interesting," the younger man said. "There are already lots of tourists through here in summer, I'm sure, and you must get some of the winter ski traffic."

Steve nodded enthusiastically. "We're trying to really put Rattlesnake on the map as a tourist destination, like so many of the other little towns here in Gold Rush country," he began. "Right now, people coming up Highway 49 spend an hour here, an hour there—they'll hit the antique shops in Sutter Creek and Amador; have lunch in Auburn; drive on up to Downieville. Like that, you know? Then they turn around and go home. If they stop over, mostly they do it in Grass Valley or Nevada City, or Placerville, so those are the places that do the best commercially for the broadest spectrum of merchants."

"You're a little off the highway for most people, I'd guess," Sam ventured. "Gotta have a big draw."

"If I can accomplish what I want to with the mine, I think we've got a shot," Steve replied. "Maybe even without the North Cedar. The Markhams are reopening the old hotel this fall; the Scotchbroom Café has been totally redesigned; we've got a couple of antique shops open, now, and an art gallery. The Historical Society has a first-rate exhibit of local artifacts at the museum. Go downtown, if you haven't already, and you'll see some of the merchants in period costume, so we can really transport people back to the mining-camp days, let them see what it was like to be here in the heyday of the Gold Rush. Reopening the North Cedar the way I want—people will actually be able to ride down into the mine and genuinely experience what the miners did in the early days. The tourists are going to love it!"

He paused to take a breath, about to plunge on, but Dean intervened.

"Except?" the older Winchester asked simply, and Steve's face fell with astonishing immediacy.

"Except…" The mine-owner pursed his lips, dropping his eyes to the dark expanse before them, speaking into the emptiness. "Except that I'm afraid."

Sam felt Dean shift uncomfortably beside him, trying to take some of the weight off his aching knee.

"Afraid of what?" the younger man asked, and although his voice was quiet, it carried down into the mine's throat, echoing there.

"I'm afraid there might be ghosts." Steve's answer was whispered, and then Dean grinned wolfishly, rubbing his hands together with glee.

"Now we're talkin'!"

-:- -:- -:-

Despite the mine-owner's obvious case of nerves, he actually had very little to say about why he had called Bobby, asking for help. Through the years, a few workers and visitors to the North Cedar had reported odd noises and funny feelings, none of which Steve Hartson had personally experienced. Not really, anyway. Still, he needed to cover all his bases before starting to work in earnest on the would-be tourist attraction. Surely the Winchesters could check things out and reassure him that nothing untoward was going to happen to any paying customers.

Sam felt his own uneasiness leach away as he thought about the anxiety prevalent in human nature. Dark places deep underground had a tendency to make people apprehensive, whether or not there was anything supernatural going on, and it was quite likely that the North Cedar wasn't haunted at all. It would be no trouble to give the mine a thorough going-over, maybe leave a few wards in the main passages to make Steve more comfortable about what Sam was going to charge him for the job, let Dean have a few days to rest up--

But Dean apparently had the heebie-jeebies, standing at his brother's side at the collar of the main shaft, staring down into the narrow tunnel that dropped steeply into the earth at their feet, his enthusiasm gone entirely upon hearing what Sam had planned.

"I don't like it, Sammy. You're not going down there by yourself."

"Dean, we've got to check it out, and you can hardly walk on flat ground, let alone down a mine-shaft. I don't see what other choice we have."

Steve handed Sam a white plastic safety helmet, then tossed his own between both hands. "It's really very safe down below," he said. "In over a hundred years of mining, we lost less than two dozen men. It's hard rock, Dean, so you don't have to worry about cave-ins."

"Oh, believe me, it's not cave-ins I'm worried about," Dean muttered, shooting Sam a black look.

"Fine," Sam said, his _see-how-patient-I'm-being-about-your-ridiculous-behavior_ face firmly in place as he held out the safety helmet. "You want to go down, you can do it. But you have to wear this."

Dean's scowl grew darker. "Over my dead body."

"Sorry, Dean," Steve said. "Safety regulation numero uno—the helmet's a requirement."

"Fuck."

Sam huffed a sigh, a little surprised at himself that he hadn't expected Dean to make trouble. "Well," he said, considering his options. "We've got to have someone up top to make sure the hoist is running smoothly. One bell for stop; two for reverse, right, Steve?"

"That's it. But there's no need for Dean to stay here—we can operate the cables from below. For that matter, if something went wrong, we could just climb back up, although that would be kind of a problem for someone as tall as you are, Sam."

Sam had begun to grin at the look on Dean's face when his brother heard he could be relegated to backup status. Now he felt his own brow crinkle as he realized Steve was right—he was going to be damned uncomfortable slouching forward to keep his head from smacking granite in the low-ceilinged passageway.

"How long's it take to actually get down in there?" Dean asked, peering with distaste into the dim, open maw of the shaft. The whole gullet-like thing the mine had going had him feeling more than a little uncomfortable, although he'd seen his share of deep, dark places.

"The first descent in the skip just takes a few minutes," Steve said. "After that, we have to walk along the main tunnel for another couple minutes or so until we get to the first drift, which is called the Thirty-Six. That's one of the places where some people have—" He took a quick breath. "Well, that's where some people get antsy."

The brothers exchanged glances, and then Dean plucked the hard-hat from Sam's hands.

"No way I'm not goin'," he growled. "Get your own damn helmet."

-:- -:- -:-

Sam attempted to assist without being too obvious as his brother tried to decide the best way to get into the man-skip. Designed for a crew of ten, the flat car was about as far from luxurious as a vehicle could get. It was simply a long, narrow bed of raw boards on wheels, with slats like little speed-bumps placed horizontally across the bottom against which the North Cedar's crew had parked bony asses and braced their feet for decades. Sam had seen pictures of miners on similar sleds, riding on rails down into the earth's bowels, stacked together in a way that reminded him vaguely of those potato chips that come in a can. There were no sides, beyond a small, surrounding lip of what appeared to be cast-iron, and he wondered fleetingly whether anyone had ever fallen off a skip.

"Least we're not gonna get splinters," Dean grinned up at him, mood clearly improved now that he'd gotten his way about accompanying Sam and Steve into the mine.

Letting his left leg do all the work, the injured man sat down gingerly on the well-worn boards near the middle of the flat bed, putting his arms behind him and twisting slightly until he had hold of both sides. With Sam watching carefully, he pushed his weight up on his hands, swinging his straightened legs onto the skip together, boots hitting simultaneously with a dull thud.

"Let's move it, gents," Dean said, settling in and taking charge. "Time's a-wastin'. Hey, Steve, how do you drive this thing?"

Sam rolled his eyes, where his brother could not see.

-:- -:- -:-

_TBC. Comments are welcomed._


	2. Chapter 2

_Thanks so much for your reviews and alerts! I'm really grateful—Miyo86, I couldn't reach you directly, or I'd have said so in person. I appreciate the encouragement._

_My fingers are crossed about this chapter and your patience, but concurrent plots require two set-ups. Anyway, I hope you enjoy…there will be eleven chapters in all._

**Rush**

**Chapter Two**

It took six teeth-rattling minutes to descend to the North Cedar Mine's uppermost subterranean level, the granite ceiling mere inches above Sam's head. The string of bare incandescent bulbs lining the shaft had provided illumination as the man-skip carried the Winchesters and Steve Hartson down into the belly of the gold-mine, but Sam was glad to have the use of the little lantern mounted to his safety helmet, as well. For one thing, it allowed him to gauge the lines of pain around his brother's mouth once they were at the bottom.

"From here, it takes another couple of minutes to walk to the Thirty-Six," Steve informed them once the man-skip had come to the end of the rails and he'd switched off the hoist-system. "The floor of the tunnel's pretty smooth, if you want to go see the drift."

"If that's where the action is." Dean pushed himself awkwardly out of the skip, his face an oval of white in the near-darkness. His voice seemed rough, and Sam fought off an urge to order him back into the car.

The very thought made his lips quirk. How many times had their dad barked those same words at them over the years, his tone always strident: _"Dean, get your ass back in that car and stay there!"_ and _"Sam, you park your fanny on that seat and don't move it again, you hear me?"_ and, mostly, _"Boys, we're leaving—get back in the car. Now!"_

Sam ducked his head, the flood of vivid memories reawakening the ache of his father's loss with a rush, until Dean snapped his fingers in front of Sam's nose and brought him back to the present.

"What exactly is a drift?" he asked without missing a beat, although he felt the weight of Dean's gaze upon him.

"It's kind of like a giant underground room, basically level and broader than a regular passage," Steve explained as he led them at an easy pace along the tunnel's distinct slope, Sam moving slightly ahead of his hobbling brother as Dean paused to pull out the EMF meter and turn it on. "Drifts are used pretty much as staging areas, and there are about a dozen of them throughout the North Cedar, although the lower ones are flooded now, of course. The number has to do with distance from the collar."

There wasn't a whole lot to see in the empty passageway, but Sam kept a wary eye on both the low overhead and his brother as they moved steadily downward. The older man pointedly ignored him, focusing with a frown on the EMF meter, while Steve kept up a continual nervous chatter about how he planned to reinvent the North Cedar as a tourist attraction. Then, despite the way the mine-owner's voice echoed eerily through the granite passageway, Sam still heard Dean's sudden, sharp intake of breath.

"Sonofa—"

He was at his brother's side in an instant, Dean leaning heavily to the left as he staggered to brace a hand against the tunnel wall, his face twisted in agony.

"Dean?"

"Damn it!" Dean rasped through gritted teeth, his voice low and ragged with pain. "I stepped wrong or something. Get off me, Sam—I'll be all right."

"Let me see."

Sam knelt quickly beside Dean's bum leg, steady hands gently assessing the state of his brother's knee through the brace and the heavy denim of his jeans.

"Everything okay?" Steve asked with concern, angling the lantern on his helmet to give Sam more light. "What happened?"

"Pothole," Dean said tightly. "Sam, I said I'm fine—quit pawing me."

In fact, everything patella-wise seemed like it was where it belonged, but the older Winchester was clearly hurting and Sam stood up with a huff.

"End of the road for you, man," he said firmly. "Steve, I'll come back down with you a little later, but Dean's mining days are over. Can we get checked in at the hotel, do you think?"

"Good idea," Steve replied, turning anxious eyes from Dean's face to the watch on his own wrist. "I kind of lost track of the time, but the Markhams are leaving on their vacation late this morning, and we need to get you settled before they go."

With Dean still propped on one hand against the wall of the tunnel, Sam positioned himself at his brother's right side and slid an arm around his waist, tugging gently to pull him back upright.

"You ready?" he asked, voice soft, and Dean nodded mutely, pocketing the EMF meter and then reaching across Sam's broad back to put an arm around his shoulders.

They got turned around and headed slowly back up the tunnel, Dean mostly hopping on his good leg and Steve hovering nearby, clearly worried about insurance claims and lawsuits in addition to whatever else made him antsy about the mine.

"Can I help? Is it bad? I am _so_ sorry," he said, beginning to bluster. "I'm going to put in a wooden flooring all through the tunnel, so this won't happen again. Guys, I can't tell you how bad I—"

"Steve."

The grim tone of Dean's voice halted the mine-owner mid-sentence.

"Sam's got it, and I'm fine."

Sam tightened his grip around his brother's waist slightly, shooting him a sideways glance.

"Thanks anyway, Steve," he said. "No worries. Hey, the Markhams—they own the hotel, right? You told them we're your cousins?"

In the distance, he could just make out the dimly-lit shape of the man-skip.

"Almost there, Dean," he murmured, and the older man grunted in reply.

Steve nodded, walking mostly backwards now so he could see the Winchesters as he talked, wanting no more accidents. "Cousins on my mom's side, right, from back east. Nobody knows anything about the real reason why you're here."

"Including us," Dean muttered under his breath, and Sam shot him another look.

"We know how to be discreet," he said simply, and the mine-owner seemed relieved.

"That's great, guys, because—well, I just don't need people getting ideas, or thinking I've gone crazy."

At last they reached the man-skip, Steve now keeping a respectful distance and Dean full of invective as Sam got him situated to his satisfaction in the middle of the sled, facing downhill. Then Sam and Steve clambered aboard behind him, the mine-owner operating the cable mechanism that would hoist them back to the surface, and Sam's hands itching to hold his brother securely when the man-skip jolted into motion.

Dean yanked the hard-hat off his head, giving it a damning glare before handing it over his shoulder, nearly smacking Sam in the face.

"Safety helmet!" he shouted over the rattle and clatter of their journey upward. "What a wonderful, helpful idea!"

Once again, Sam rolled his eyes.

-:- -:- -:-

The Markhams were a cheerful couple in their mid- to late thirties, enthusiastic about redecorating and reopening Rattlesnake's only hotel. First established by Mitch's family in 1852, the three-story Baron had burned to the ground several times over the years, but the current version, with its double-decker front veranda, definitely brought an air of class to the west end of Eureka Street. To all of Rattlesnake, for that matter, Sam thought.

"I'm so happy Steve suggested you stay here," Melanie Markham said warmly, ushering everyone past the suitcases piled at the doorway, through the lobby and into the hotel's dark-paneled parlor. Evidence of ongoing construction was everywhere, most notably several sawhorses, a pile of tools, paint cans, tarps and rollers and brushes—all the detritus of a remodel. The aroma of fresh paint was heavy, but Sam thought he detected an undertone of something floral, perhaps Melanie's perfume.

She was petite and hardy and maternal all at once, and she reminded him of Sarah Blake, somehow. It was more than her coloring, her dark hair. Both women had bright, intelligent eyes, ready and generous smiles, and an obvious spark. A liveliness. Sarah had told him once that her nickname in college had been 'Sic-'em Sarah,' for her go-getter attitude; Melanie seemed to have that same trait.

Mitch appeared to be a bit more laid back, but just as warm as his wife. He was getting a little thick around the middle, and some gray was coming in at his temples, but he was genial and genuine. Sam liked both of the Markhams at once.

Their hostess cleared three settees of their protective coverings, indicating with a sweep of her hand that everyone should find a place to park. The couple settled down together, and Sam and Steve shared another couch, allowing Dean to finagle himself uncomfortably onto the third.

_He's worn out_, Sam thought, watching with equal parts sympathy and irritation. He wasn't quite sure, exactly, how this was going to unfold, with one brother down, if not altogether out. It would depend on what they were dealing with, but no way was Sam willing to risk permanent damage to Dean's knee. Or any part of Dean, for that matter—they'd both had too much damage already, especially recently.

But it was best to think of what was currently on their plate, and Sam turned his attention to The Baron's comfortably opulent parlor. The furnishings were clearly modern remakes, but he could see how the hotel might have looked just like this, back in its Gold Rush heyday.

As though reading his mind, Mitch nodded. "We're trying to make it as much like the original as possible—we've already got the exterior built, obviously, and there are photographs in the museum from back when Rattlesnake was still a gold camp that show little bits of the lobby and the parlor, particularly. Melanie's got great taste, and I'm getting the hang of what to look for. We've had to guess at the original colors, of course. I know what they were in my dad's childhood, and what they were before the hotel burned down the last time in '95. Now that The Baron's back in the family again, Melanie and I hope to get the place on the State Historic Registry, so we're trying to be as authentic as possible."

"Mitch's people have been part of Rattlesnake forever," Melanie added. "In fact, his great-great-eight-times-great-uncle JT built The Baron shortly after the mine opened. He was the crew foreman or manager or something out at the North Cedar, and wanted another local business venture. Plus, his wife Agnes wasn't about to come out from San Francisco until she had someplace nice to live, of course. The hotel was Rattlesnake's first ritzy joint—Steve, I don't think Hartson House had even been built yet. Can that be right?"

Steve bobbed his head in agreement. "Leland was tight with a buck," he said, referring to his own relative, the first Hartson to own the North Cedar Mine. "I think he stayed out at the mine most of the time, and Josephine rarely came out from the City. Must've been 1853, I guess, before they started construction on the house. I'm guessing they probably stayed right here, whenever she was in town."

"It's looking great," Sam murmured appreciatively, taking another look around the high-ceilinged room, and back out into the lobby. Melanie beamed in gratitude, taking her husband's hand.

"Oh, Sam, you're too kind. We're much further along than it looks like, from the state of the parlor. The rooms are almost done, we think—we've got fourteen to start with, not counting the suite where you'll be staying, or the ones on the third floor. We're hoping to be open by the beginning of September, before the ski traffic starts. We don't know if it'll make a go, but for now, The Baron's our baby."

Sam thought a shadow passed over her face at that, but it was gone quickly as Mitch squeezed her hand and gave her a loving look, which she returned in kind.

"So, you'll be out of town for a few days?" Dean asked, obviously bored and steering the conversation in a more helpful direction.

Mitch nodded again. "Until next Thursday. And, well, we don't actually live here—we're up from the Bay Area most weekends, but we've been spending a lot of time in Rattlesnake, especially since the vandalism began. Melanie doesn't like to leave the place unprotected."

Steve Hartson leaned forward, cutting his eyes from Sam to Dean and back. "It's very convenient that you boys're in town right now, so you can keep an eye on the place while Mitch and Melanie are on their cruise."

"Oh, definitely," Melanie agreed quickly. "You know, Steve, I didn't even know you had cousins—guess I never thought to ask—but I'm so glad they're here. Once the, um, _oddities_ started, I got a little upset. Mitch offered to cancel our vacation plans, but we'd have lost our deposit. Honestly, he's worked so hard, he deserves to get away. I'm sure everything's going to be perfectly all right—really, I've calmed down a lot—but it does make me feel better to know that someone's going to be watching out for the hotel while we're gone."

Suddenly, there was a loud bang from the lobby—from the little office behind the reception desk, Sam thought. Dean reached instantly inside his jacket, and Sam leaned forward, one hand beneath his shirt at the back of his jeans.

"Is there someone else here?" Dean asked gruffly as he made eye contact with Sam.

The Markhams had both startled, but now Melanie shook her head, smiling ruefully. "It's probably the cat, knocking something over. Happens all the time."

Sam released his grip on the gun tucked into the small of his back as his breathing evened. "You have a cat? Is it going to need feeding while you're gone?"

Taking care of an animal had not been part of the bargain with Steve, and neither of the Winchesters had ever had much to do with pets before, the occasional dog at Bobby Singer's place being the exception. Without even looking, Sam could read the giant "no" written all over Dean's face.

But Mitch said it for him. "No, it's not even our cat. We think it came in with one of the workmen one day and made itself at home—we've never even seen it, really, but Mel heard it meowing one day and it's always knocking things off the desk in there, or in the kitchen. It seems to come and go as it pleases."

Sam kept watch on his brother out of the corner of his eye; saw Dean reach subtly into the pocket where he normally stashed the EMF meter and fidget with something there. When his hand came out of the pocket, Dean looked over at Sam and twitched his mouth. The meter was on, and picking up nothing.

"Tell Sam and Dean about the vandalism," Steve encouraged, and Mitch made a face.

"It's really not much to talk about; shouldn't even really call it vandalism, I guess, but it does concern me, because it's so unlike Rattlesnake. You know how it is with small towns where everyone knows everyone else—some of the people around here still don't even lock their doors."

"We're talking, what?" Dean asked, fiddling absently with the top strap of the brace. "Graffiti? Windows broken?"

Both Markhams shook their heads.

"Oh, no," Melanie avowed instantly. "Nothing like that. It's not even like pranks, really; just little stuff. I'll put something down someplace—where I know I can find it again—and when I come back for it, it's gone. I'm still looking for that whatchamacallit…." She made a fist and swiveled her forearm a few times, frowning slightly. "That paint-can opener thingy, whatever that's called—anyway, I was using it last week in the dining room, and now I can't find it anywhere."

"A few times I've been certain I've closed a door—locked it, even—but later I find it standing wide open, somehow," Mitch added. "Things like that."

"It's probably kids, coming in to look around when we're not here, but we can't figure out how they get in," Melanie said. "There's never been a problem with the locks on the outside doors, and the windows are all latched."

Mitch rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "Truth is, some of the ones on the lower floor won't even open. I think we painted them shut."

"Good thing, too, at this time of year," Melanie chuckled. "Helps keep the pine pollen out!"

The Winchesters exchanged glances again, and Dean scratched the back of his head.

"Still, it could be drafts or something like that," he suggested. "The doors, anyway."

"Sure, we know. Kids or drafts, and nothing's been harmed," Mitch said agreeably before shrugging his shoulders. "Honestly, we're kind of hoping it's ghosts."

For a moment there was silence, everyone looking at everyone else with varying degrees of surprise or discomfort.

"Excuse me?" Sam said finally, having gotten the go-ahead from Dean's raised eyebrow. "You're _hoping_ it's ghosts?"

Melanie had colored, and now she waved a dismissive hand, a little embarrassed. "We know how it sounds, but haunted hotels can really draw in the business. Being haunted is a terrific marketing tool, so we wouldn't mind if The Baron turned out to have a few ghosts. Lord knows it ought to!"

Sam drew in breath to speak again, came up empty, and looked to Dean for an assist. His brother seemed vaguely amused.

"Now, why should The Baron be haunted?" Dean drawled casually. "Besides the being-good-for-business angle, I mean."

He could see Steve Hartson out of the corner of his eye. The mine-owner had frozen at the mention of haunting, face going pale, his courteous smile freezing into an uncomfortable grimace. Dean shifted in his seat, clearing his throat to subtly draw attention, providing Steve some cover.

Sam saw and understood, bumping his knee briefly against Steve's to jolt the man back to reality.

"I never heard of people actually wanting a place to be haunted," the younger man said a little too loudly and not altogether sincerely. Truth was, amateur ghost-hunters like those two jokers back in Texas were everywhere, and the Winchesters knew of a number of locations that pandered to those with supernatural interests.

Still, not every hotelier relished the idea of having a resident ghost. The place in Nevada City where Sam and Jess had stayed that weekend hadn't really advertised it, but the staff had been more than willing to talk about what they believed to be the ghost of a flapper from the Roaring Twenties haunting the third floor. Jess had loved the concept, finding it terribly romantic, but she'd happily forgotten all about the alleged spirit when Sam captured her interest with other, mostly horizontal kinds of romance.

Steve startled, then laughed uneasily, eyes darting between the Winchesters again. "Oh, I guess I've heard stranger things."

_Smooth_, Dean thought sarcastically before turning an expression of pleasant inquiry to the Markhams.

"Have people died here?" he asked bluntly.

Mitch almost seemed proud and definitely excited. "Rattlesnake's second most-famous murder happened right upstairs," he replied.

"Second-most?" Sam repeated, shooting a glance at his brother as Mitch nodded enthusiastically.

"The man who built The Baron—remember my buncha-greats uncle, JT Markham? Stabbed to death in his own hotel. If any place in town is going to be haunted, it ought to be here. Melanie, let's show the guys Delilah's room."

His wife took a quick look at the clock over the fireplace, then acquiesced. "We've got a few more minutes before we have to leave for the airport, if you're interested?"

"I'm afraid I'm gonna have to back out," Steve said, getting to his feet. "Got that state inspector arriving tomorrow, and I want to look over some of the paperwork one last time before she gets here. Mitch. Melanie." He shook hands with Mitch and gave Melanie a brief hug. "I'm glad it's going to work out, having my cousins stay here. Enjoy your cruise. Guys, I'll see you again over at the mine office a little later, right?"

The Winchesters gave their assent, everyone rising as Hartson saw himself out. Sam kept a surreptitious eye on his brother, catching the hint of discomfort as Dean's brows drew together when he put weight on his right leg. Dean saw him watching, and his scowl grew even fiercer.

_All right, then_. Sam raised both hands slightly, ceding the issue. _Be that way_.

"Delilah's room is on the second level. Guys, you'll be staying on the main floor in the Markham Suite," Mitch said, indicating a hallway opposite the staircase and the registration desk with a tilt of his head.

"We call it that because JT and Agnes lived in the original," Melanie told them. "It's been completely redone, of course, with all the amenities. We say it's for families, but there's really only the one bedroom with two big beds, and a little sitting area. I hope that's okay with you. The suite's in the back of the hotel, so it's quiet and private. I put in fresh linens and towels this morning, and took the liberty of stocking a few things in the fridge for you."

The Markhams were beginning to seem a little rushed, maybe growing anxious to start their vacation now that Steve Hartson's "cousins" hadn't turned out to be serial killers or drug addicts, merely normal American boys. Sam thought Melanie approved of how he hovered a little over his injured brother, even though it was obvious Dean didn't like it at all.

"How's your knee?" the younger man murmured, checking his watch. It was well past time for Dean to take his meds again, especially since his stumble at the North Cedar earlier. "You need to dose up?"

Dean had also caught Melanie watching them. The corners of his lips went up, and then they went down, just like that, and the baleful look in his eyes told Sam plainly to just back off. Sam did the ceding-thing again with his hands.

_Jerk_.

"Delilah's room is right upstairs," Mitch Markham said, undeterred by subtle drama when he had a sensational story to tell. "This'll just take a minute, and it's pretty interesting."

"You stay here, Dean," Sam said quietly. "I'll go."

Melanie took her husband's arm as Mitch led the way out of the parlor, across the lobby and toward the staircase, quickly relating the brief but melodramatic tale of JT Markham's murder at the hands of Delilah Reardon, Rattlesnake's most prosperous lady of the night. Apparently distraught over the recent death of her young daughter, the local madam had stabbed The Baron's owner in the very room where she entertained select clientele, when he'd come to collect the rent. JT's wife, Agnes, had slept innocently through it all in their chambers below, until JT had stumbled downstairs, more dead than alive, bursting in to breathe his last in an awakened Agnes's loving arms.

"So The Baron was a—how shall I put it?—a house of ill repute?" Sam asked, and the Markhams turned to him abruptly at the base of the staircase.

"Never!" Melanie said, dismayed, but Mitch's answer was matter-of-fact.

"No, the brothel was up Yankee Street. Delilah and her daughter _lived_ here. But to get back to my story, JT died in the room where you boys will be staying—as Mel mentioned earlier, that's where he and Agnes lived. Or the remodeled version of it, anyway."

"Agnes died there, too," Melanie added, "only many years later. She and JT are buried side by side out in the cemetery—the headstone she commissioned is kind of a local celebrity."

"How's that?" Sam asked hesitantly, wishing to avoid making another social error.

Again, Mitch supplied the answer. "The grave-marker references a nickname JT apparently called Agnes, 'Little Turtle Dove,' after a song that was really popular in the gold camps. A lot of people who are into cemetery art love the headstone—they're always photographing it, and I think it was even included in a coffee-table book on cemeteries a few years ago."

"Oh, yes," Melanie attested. "Imagine that, people interested in grave markers! Anyway, if either of you boys play the piano, you'll find the sheet music in the bench; sort of our homage to the original Markhams." She hummed a few bars of a lilting melody, the tune passably pleasant, and Sam shook his head politely.

"Sorry. Most of our music education involved cassette tapes."

Turning, Mitch began to climb the stairs, calling back over his shoulder, "Anyway, old Agnes and JT never had children, and she didn't re-marry, which is how the hotel passed on to my part of the family. We've turned Delilah's room into the honeymoon suite."

Sam bit back a laugh at the irony of that particular choice, then followed the chatty couple up the steep, carpeted staircase, taking the risers two at a time by rote, only finding once he'd reached the top that Dean had followed them through the lobby before stopping short at the foot of the stairs.

His brother looked mortified.

"Dean, I said I'd go! You don't need to…."

Dean's glare might have killed a lesser person, and Sam shut his mouth.

When she realized the situation, Melanie reddened prettily.

"I'm so sorry, Dean!" she apologized. "I wasn't thinking. Let me come back down and show you where the service elevator is."

"What? No," Dean protested half-heartedly, faking a smile and climbing onto the first step. "I was just, uh—it's not a problem."

She started back down, anyway, and Sam saw Dean's face harden with determination as he grabbed hold of the banister to hoist himself up to the next step. It was awkward going in the knee-brace, and he was embarrassed, Sam saw clearly.

_Shit, Dean, just stay downstairs!_ Sam thought, knowing it was hopeless. He grasped Melanie's elbow gently, drawing her back onto the upper landing. "So, which one was Delilah's room?"

She turned to him with a puzzled frown, and Sam tugged at her slightly, hoping she could read his mind that Dean was proud and stubborn and would never use the elevator—not now, now that attention had been drawn to his ability to climb the stairs. Or his inability, rather. Another word about it, and Dean would probably want to pole-vault to the second floor, then hop-scotch to Delilah's room, just to prove he could do it.

Below them, the older Winchester hauled himself up another step.

"Had she lived here for some time? Delilah?" Sam asked pointedly, brows lifting.

He saw the light dawn in her face and Melanie gave him a bright, polite smile, moving past him as her husband held out his hand to take hers.

"A little more than a year, I think," she chirped, apologizing to Sam with her eyes and preceding him down the long hallway to the left. "She and her daughter moved here from San Francisco in 1852 or '53, if I remember correctly, although the girl at the museum could tell you for sure. Grace knows everything there is to know about Rattlesnake history."

Mitch bobbed his head. "Anyway, Delilah and the little girl both made a good living here in Rattlesnake, and could afford the best. Traveled to the other gold camps, too, of course, but The Baron was their real home."

Sam wondered vaguely what a little girl might do to make a living among gold miners, but he was only listening to the Markhams with half an ear. Mostly he was tracking Dean's progress up the staircase. If he was right, his brother only had three more steps to go...

"Here it is," Mitch said proudly, approaching a door at the end of the hallway, past four other doors, each ornately carved in dark oak and with elaborate brass handles. "Some of the rooms on this floor share facilities down there at the other end, but this one has a private bath. That's one reason why we're using it as the honeymoon—hey, Dean, you getting along all right?"

Murmuring a silent prayer of relief, Sam turned to see Dean making his way toward them, the older man's lips pressed tightly together but his gait steady. If he seemed paler than normal, and if his breathing was a little uneven, Sam knew better than to comment. He pursed his own lips and turned back to the room as Mitch opened the door to usher them inside.

"Dean, can I show you something?" Melanie asked companionably, remaining in the hall until Dean caught up, while Sam followed Mitch into the room.

It wasn't large, by any means, but the Markhams had done a great job with the decorating. The wall-papered room was appointed in a lavish but sturdy Victorian style, with rich burgundy drapes and bed-linens. There were period clocks and candlesticks and other knick-knacks on every available surface, and opulent still-life oils on the walls. One side of the room was taken up by a small sitting area which included a fireplace, a plush settee and a low table complete with a silver tea-service. Twin dressers and a matching entertainment cabinet lined the wall opposite the bed, a four-poster king buried under plush coverlets and pillows, and on the far side of the room were two closed doors—Sam guessed for the closet and bathroom—and a small dining table and chairs. The table was set for two, with white linen napkins, champagne flutes, plates of what looked like fine bone china with a dainty rose pattern, and elegant silverware.

Mitch chuckled wryly. "We won't be ready for guests for several months, yet, but Melanie wanted to see what it would look like."

"Wow," Sam said, acknowledging the Markhams' hard work. He couldn't help but think how much Jess would have loved coming here to spend some time.

Or Sarah, who would appreciate the antiques and be intrigued by the local history.

Both women would have gotten a kick out of the fact that what had once been a murder room had been turned into the honeymoon suite.

Sam felt a rush of sudden melancholy. It was a brand of blues he seldom had patience for and usually refused to indulge, but their recent encounter with the spirit of Molly McNamara had gotten him thinking a lot about the enduring quality of love. Molly's spirit had lingered long after her death, fearing for her husband's life, wanting to see him safe and whole once again, so deep had her love been.

_Before that awful night in Palo Alto, Sam's own love for Jessica had grown to a degree he'd never before experienced, and he knew she had felt the same about him. They were young, they realized, but neither had any question about the direction they were headed together, and Sam had had no doubts what Jess's answer would be when he finally got up the nerve to ask her to marry him. They'd taken their time moving in together, and they would take time with the engagement. Even so, both had believed they'd be spending the rest of their lives as husband and wife._

_If only they'd gotten that far._

Honestly, Sam wasn't sure he would ever be over the pain of Jessica's loss; over the accompanying fear of loving anyone else, even a bright light like Sarah. Still, it seemed to him that living a solitary life was unnatural and meaningless. Sometimes, seeing happy couples like the Markhams; being in places like this one, designed for romance—he heaved a great sigh, despairing quietly of ever knowing love again.

He stirred from his unintended reverie when Dean and Melanie entered.

"…but thanks anyway," the hunter finished saying, catching sight of Sam's face and recognizing the look. Dean felt his jaw clench.

_Ah, God, there it is again, _he thought_, little brother all broody and torn up inside. Whatever brought it on this time, couldn't somebody please cut this kid a fucking break? C'mon, Sammy—snap yourself out of it. _

"Hey," Dean said, and when Sam glanced over, the older man jerked his chin toward the settee.

Frowning, Sam followed the gesture with his eyes.

"Huh."

In three long strides, Sam was in the sitting room, bending to pick something off the carpet. "Melanie, would this be your missing whatchamacallit?"

He offered up the paint-can church-key, and both Markhams made faces of surprise.

"How did that get up here?" Melanie wondered aloud. "Mitch, did you—oh, I know. I came up with the new cushions for the settee, and I must have brought this thingy with me and dropped it. Darn it, I thought for sure it must have been carried off by a ghost!"

"Sweetie, we've got to get going," Mitch said, taking a glance at his watch, "and we don't want to worry Sam and Dean with our haunted-hotel foolishness."

Dean chuckled humorlessly. "Yeah, Sammy here has kind of an overactive imagination. All this talk of ghosts and murder—he's going to have to sleep with the light on tonight."

"He's kidding," Sam assured the others quickly, as Melanie's face fell. "Look, you need to get out of here to catch your plane. We'll be fine, and I promise we'll take good care of the hotel while we're here. Thanks for letting us stay."

He herded them out of the room, letting Dean bring up the rear.

"He won't take the elevator," Melanie muttered conspiratorially to Sam out of the side of her mouth.

"He's stubborn that way," Sam muttered back, catching Mitch's amused glance, knowing without a doubt that Melanie would make a good mom if it ever turned out that The Baron Hotel wasn't the Markhams' only baby.

With Dean clomping slowly and noisily one step at a time down the stairs behind him, Sam was struck briefly by the irony of the homophone. _Barren. _Like JT and Agnes had been. Maybe like Mitch and Melanie, too.

They seemed to be a nice couple, and he hoped better for them.

Then there was a flurry of last-minute instructions about keys and light switches, emergency phone numbers and use of the kitchen, until finally the Markhams were on their way.

"Jesus," Dean said tiredly when they were gone, and Sam laughed.

"Tell me about it. And we never _did_ hear about Rattlesnake's most famous murder, whatever that was."

"Thank God for small favors."

Tracking pollen behind them, they grabbed their gear from the Impala and stowed it in the spacious suite at the rear of the first floor. Also done in Victorian period furnishings, the room was much lighter than the one upstairs, in shades of green and yellow and dark blue. There were two full beds, several armoires, and the requisite sitting room with fireplace. The settee also served as a fold-out bed. There was a small kitchen and dining area, and the bathroom was surprisingly large, with both a walk-in shower and a claw-footed tub.

Dean found the prize, however: a 42-inch flat-screen TV hidden inside the central armoire.

"Now we're talking," he said, snatching up the remote and heading for the nearest bed.

"Good," Sam replied, taking a sidelong look at his brother's pallor. "So you're going to get some rest, right?"

Before the words were out of his mouth, he knew he'd made a mistake, and Sam bit down on the inside of his cheek.

Sure enough, Dean stopped in his tracks. "It's barely noon, Sam—I don't need any rest."

"Dean, you need to get off your feet and give your knee a break. Why don't you lie down for a while, watch some TV. I'll go find us some lunch…."

Opening the door of the little refrigerator, Sam grinned with delight.

"Gotta love the Markhams," he said, lifting out a sixer of long-necks and displaying it for his brother. The label was for a microbrewery brand Sam didn't recognize, sure to be local, but cold beer was cold beer, in the Winchesters' book.

Still, he put the long-necks back and pulled out two waters, instead. "Take your meds, dude," he directed, twisting off the caps and handing a bottle to Dean, who was clearly torn between pride on the one hand and bed, rest, and the big TV screen on the other.

Pride won out, and Dean tossed the remote onto the quilted coverlet of his bed.

"No. I'm fine," he said. "Come on, Sam. Let's get the salt down and go do some recon."

"Dean, take your damn meds, would you? You look like shit—you shouldn't have been on the stairs, and you're just gonna screw up your knee even more if you don't get off of it!"

"I look fine," Dean growled, rummaging in a duffel and pulling out the salt canister, then stumping painfully across the room to line the two windows. "Check the bathroom, wouldja?"

Sam drew in a deep breath, hands on his hips as he scanned the room. "When was the last time we put fresh batteries in the EMF meter?" he asked, more to cool down than out of any real interest.

"Elko. Test 'em yourself." Dean drew the meter out of his pocket and tossed it to his brother, who caught it one-handed.

Sam hit the switch and watched the needle jump, the lights flash, then go quiet before he stowed the meter in his own pocket.

"Huh. Maybe the Markhams are right, and this place isn't haunted."

"Well, maybe so, but I'm not relying on 'maybe.'" Dean's voice was ragged when he replied. "Did you see any damn cat? 'Cause I sure didn't."

Watching his brother carefully pour a line of salt along the second windowsill, Sam chewed briefly on his bottom lip.

Dean wasn't in any shape to hunt, Sam knew, but there was precious little that would keep him off his feet. Being t-boned by a semi, yeah, for a while, but dislocating a kneecap? Not so much.

He tried another tack, eying the brace on Dean's leg caustically. "That's how you're going out?"

"What?" Dean stopped abruptly, looking down at himself, then up at his brother. "Somethin' wrong with what I'm wearing?"

"Uh, the brace?"

"Yeah. What about it?"

"You're wearing it wrong, dude. It belongs inside, under your jeans."

"Not lookin' to make a fashion statement, Sammy." Still, Dean's expression grew vaguely pensive. "You didn't say anything earlier."

"Yeah, 'cause you were stoned and could've been wearing bunny-ears and a tutu and wouldn't have minded," Sam pointed out archly. "That looks ridiculous, Dean."

"Well, fuck you very much," came the acid reply as Dean tossed him the canister. "Damn brace is too bulky to fit under my jeans, and I can't bend enough to get 'em on, anyway, if I'm wearin' this thing. Hell if I'm gonna have you helpin' me into my pants every day."

"And hell if I'm _gonna_ help you into your pants every day," Sam murmured darkly, moving into the bathroom to salt the windowsill.

Dean made a sour face as he leaned down to examine the brace, fingers playing thoughtfully over the mechanism that controlled how much his knee could bend. "_Has_ to be on the outside, Sammy. Otherwise? What if I need to really move, huh? What if I have to—I don't know—run or jump or something? What, do I just drop trou in the middle of the street so I can adjust this sucker?"

That got Sam's full attention.

"Don't touch that!" he said, more sharply than he intended, and his brother gave him a look as Sam burst out of the bathroom. "No running! No jumping! No…_adjusting_, okay? Dean, you're not supposed to bend your knee at all, so just leave it the hell alone, would you? Seriously, man, just stay off your feet until you can get by with the other brace. _Please_."

Dean didn't even pretend to consider Sam's request. "Nuh-unh," he said. "No way, no how. I can't just be sittin' around on my ass all day while you're dealin' with whatever's down in that mine, Sammy. I just can't do it. I gotta be doin' _some_thin'!"

Patience worn thin, Sam adopted an artificial smile. "Fine. Dean. One of us has got to figure out who or what might be in the mine. We know that nearly two dozen guys died there, over the years, but we don't know their names or their stories, and we don't know where they're buried. There's plenty of research needs doing, so that could be your gig."

Dean made another face. "The computer?" he said, voice peevish.

"Or the library, or the museum—I'm not saying you have to stay cooped up in the hotel. But you screw up your knee permanently and your hunting days are numbered, man."

It felt kind of like a cheap shot, but it was the truth, and they both knew it. Dean muttered an oath, his hand moving to the Velcro strap around his thigh, ripping it open just to tighten it again with ill-concealed distemper.

"Yeah, all right," he acquiesced finally, the taste of concession bitter in his mouth. "I'll do the fucking research, Sam—you got the lead."

-:- -:- -:-

_Now all the groundwork is laid. (Finally!) Plenty of action coming right up!_

_Thanks for reading—comments are welcomed._


	3. Chapter 3

_Thank you so much for the feedback, the alerts and the favs! I really appreciate them all._

_And did I mention there are spoilers for "Provenance," from S1? If not, and if it matters, I'm SO sorry! 'Cause they're here..._

**Rush**

**Chapter 3**

When he got off the man-skip at the bottom of the main shaft, Sam's hardhat clanked against rock overhead, making him duck instantly, his back curved into a slouch.

He hadn't really noticed before, worried as he'd been about his brother, but the temperature inside the North Cedar Mine was mild, and when he brushed his hand against the ceiling, not even the stone felt particularly cool.

"I thought it would be colder," he said, voice thin in the emptiness.

"Plenty of mines are cold," Steve Hartson replied, leading the way down the passage once again toward the first drift. They went swiftly this time, without a hobbling Dean to slow them down. "This one, the temp stays pretty even in the mid-sixties, no matter how far down you go."

Sam catalogued the fact in his mental almanac. "Why is that?" he asked, and the mine-owner shrugged.

"Luck? It sure didn't have to do with the fresh air that got pumped down here when things were in full swing. Doesn't matter whether it's winter or summer up top, either."

"Dryer than I thought it would be, too," Sam murmured, holding the EMF meter out before him, tilting his head to catch the gauge's face with his headlamp. The needle was stuttering erratically as they reached the drift known as the Thirty-Six.

"Give me a second and I'll get the lights on," Steve said, his voice disappearing into the dark expanse as he moved to fire up the generator. "Can't wait to get the electricity restored in here."

Sam stepped forward into the emptiness, shoulders still hunched, and in a moment both men were blinking in the relative brightness of an array of carbon lamps, a vast room of granite spread out before them.

"Look at it," Steve said uncomfortably over the noise of the generator. "Not a thing down here and it's like daylight, but there's still something about this place.... You know, a lot of the original mining was done by candle or lantern. Can you even imagine spending twelve hours a day down here, sitting on cold, hard rock, tapping away with only a candle to see by?"

An odd scent tickled Sam's nose like a memory, evoking sun-dried fields of grass and prairie stretching for miles as the Impala roared along Midwestern roads, John or sometimes Dean at the wheel, Sam watching the land flash past, watching his childhood fly by. He blinked again, frowning slightly, and the scent was gone.

"Except for the Forty-Eight, the lower tunnels are flooded with groundwater again, up to its natural level," Steve continued. "I can't afford to pump it out, so the Thirty-Six is pretty much the limit."

The hunter felt his brow wrinkle at that, but he took a breath and kept walking, running his fingers absently along the ceiling to avoid bumping his head, not really sure what he was looking for. Beyond the generator and the carbon lamps, the drift was completely empty, not even a pile of rock littering the floor.

"So, this is called the Thirty-Six because we've traveled thirty-six hundred feet from the mine entrance to get here, right?" Sam asked. "It's not because we're thirty-six hundred feet straight down."

"You got it." Steve still lingered near the entrance, decidedly uneasy. "The Forty-Eight isn't really that much lower, and it's dry, too, but that's really where… I'm not going to…I just can't have—" The sentence trailed off forlornly.

"What?" Suddenly impatient, Sam turned and gave the mine-owner a hard look. "Steve, tell me the truth about why you wanted us to come here. Why is the Thirty-Six the limit? What's happening at the North Cedar?"

Steve shook his head, seeming more ashamed, now, than frightened. "I'm a mining engineer," he said, turning his palms up and studying them closely in the bright carbon light, unable to meet Sam's eyes. "I've been in deeper holes than this for half my life, practically—coal mines, gold mines, copper, tin, you name it. I've worked cave-ins where miners died, Sam, because we couldn't get them out in time, and where the rescue crew were also in danger of losing their own lives. But there's no place I've ever been that makes me as jumpy as my own damn mine, and I can't figure it out for the life of me. There's just something about the North Cedar that feels _wrong_."

"But nothing's happened here, at this level? Nobody's experienced any—" Sam sneezed suddenly, and the needle on the EMF meter jumped. At the same moment the generator stumbled, lights flickering.

Sam spun around, eyes taking in the drift's breadth and depth, but he saw nothing out of the ordinary as the generator hiccupped again and the lights dimmed appreciably.

Steve's voice rose nervously. "Sam?"

"It's okay," the younger man replied. "Maybe the mix in the generator is off. Has this ever happened bef—"

The silence was almost deafening in its suddenness as the generator died, the room plunged into darkness. The absence of noise pounded against their ears before the EMF meter sirened into life, giving one brief wail before dying away.

And the odd, grassy scent returned, this time with the aroma of dust and sweat and something else Sam couldn't quite place. He flicked the switch on his headlamp, but its feeble glow barely penetrated the darkness as he turned back toward the entrance.

"Steve, I'm sure it's just a—Whoa!"

Sam's breath caught in his throat when the beam of the hardhat lantern caught the mule almost head-on as it ambled by. The ghostly animal passed him within inches, single-minded, long ears twitching disinterestedly, shod feet clopping against the granite floor and harness jangling faintly. Then, as quickly as it had appeared, it was gone, along with the odor Sam now recognized as hay and old manure.

With the mule's passing, the generator coughed and roared back to life, carbon lamps once again blazing, and Sam caught himself with his mouth hanging open. He shut it with a snap, reaching quickly into his jacket for the sawed-off.

"You saw that, right?" he asked.

When Steve didn't answer immediately, Sam shot a quick look at the entrance, and saw the mine-owner standing against the rock wall as though frozen, eyes wide and staring.

"Steve? You okay?"

Steve blinked, then shook himself. "What—?" He stopped to swallow, blinking again in disbelief. "What the hell was that? My God, Sam—was that for real?"

Sam glanced down again at the silent EMF meter in his left hand, then frowned and switched it off, stashing it in a jacket pocket.

"Depends on what you mean by 'real,'" he replied. "That was residual energy, I think. Kind of like an imprint in the room—you might see it again and again, but it can't harm anything."

Steve had begun a slow slide down the wall until he was sitting on his haunches, holding his head in his hands. "I don't believe it," he murmured, barely audible over the renewed noise of the generator.

More alert than ever, Sam moved out again, visually scanning every inch of the Thirty-Six.

"What I don't get is what it was," he said distractedly. "A mule? Why would the ghost of a mule be down here?"

The mine owner's voice was flat in response. "They pulled the ore-skips down here for years. There used to be a stable for them at the far end of the drift; once the mules were brought down into the mine, some of 'em never saw the light of day again."

"Huh."

It took several minutes, but there was nothing more to see, and Sam let his long legs take him quickly back to Steve, still sitting between the generator and the drift entrance.

"Well, I guess we can safely say that the Thirty-Six definitely has a spirit," the hunter reported. "I thought you said nobody'd experienced anything here."

Steve coughed into his fist, looking away, and Sam felt his lips tighten.

"Steve."

"It's just that _I've_ never experienced anything here. The workers, back to the turn of the century, there've always been stories. I just figured they're stories, is all…brought over from Cornwall or wherever, you know?"

"Fine. That's great. Who or what are the stories about?"

"Noises, mostly—hard-drinking, uneducated men hearing noises. Bangs and moans and voices, stuff like that. Tapping, like in Cornish folklore."

Sam nodded. "Tommyknockers. You haven't heard them?"

"It's a mine, Sam. Sounds can echo and change down here—that I _have_ heard."

Sam had the feeling there was still more that Steve wasn't telling him, so he kept silent, letting his height loom over the shorter man until Steve stood, shuffling his feet uneasily.

"And there've been stories about guys seeing things," the mine-owner finally admitted. "No mules, but shadows and weird lights. Mists. Especially right after someone died in one of the shafts, you know how that kind of thing goes. But the stories always came from down in the lower drifts and winzes, nothing this close to the top. That's why I figured I didn't have to really worry about it, because those are all underwater now."

"What about the Forty-Eight?" Sam asked. "Tell me exactly what the stories have been there."

"Honestly, there's nothing exact to tell. Just what I said before—shadows, cold places, funny noises."

"So, _not _tommyknockers, then."

Steve shrugged, keeping his eyes on the drift's rough granite floor. "Any mine, you're going to hear about knockers. But at the North Cedar, most of the stories have been about people just being basically creeped out, particularly at the Forty-Eight. Like they're being watched by something that doesn't want them there. Heck, _I'm_ creeped out right here! It's why I don't go there any more."

Sam nodded, lips still pursed as he checked the loads in the salt-gun for the second time.

"Well, you're going down there today."

-:- -:- -:-

Dean idly tossed the amber prescription bottle in his left hand, frowning slightly at the rattle of the capsules inside, knowing they were for his own good but not wild about the thought of taking them.

He'd never admit it to Sammy, of course, but the walking and stair-climbing he'd done that morning had exhausted him, and his knee felt like shit, swollen and throbbing. He needed to get off his feet, needed some rest.

Thing was, Sam was still with Steve up at the North Cedar, and although he'd tried several times, Dean hadn't been able to reach his brother by phone.

_Guess cell signals can't penetrate granite_, he thought. Damn, he was tired; aching everywhere. _Fucking knee._

Oh, he wasn't worried, not really. Sam was a big boy who could take care of himself, and it didn't seem like there was anything really going on at the mine, anyway. Dean just didn't like his little brother being out of touch, not while they were hunting, and not while they didn't know exactly _what_ they were hunting. Especially not while Dean wasn't at the top of his game.

Because Sammy wasn't, either, to tell the truth, particularly not after their run-in with Meg. No, Sammy was starting to get wound up again, taut and tense like he hadn't been in a while.

Last time—and, oh God, last time hadn't been anywhere near as bad as this time—last time, Dean had stood it as long as he could, then pushed his brother about getting some release. They'd been in upstate New York…_what was that girl's name? Oh, yeah. Sarah. That thing with the painting._

For a split second he puzzled over the fact that he could remember the names of Sam's women, but so few of his own.

Then, despite the throbbing in his knee, Dean couldn't suppress a grin. _Sammy and his hormones. Time to see about getting that boy laid, good and proper._

Well, bad and improper, more like.

Dean's smile slowly faded as he opened the bottle and shook two capsules into his palm, dry-swallowing them quickly. The brothers' recent encounter with the spirit of Molly McNamara had sent Sam into something of a tailspin, little brother typically over-thinking things, trying to gain greater understanding of what they did.

Truth be told, Dean personally didn't care whether or not he understood it, so long as they got the job done. John Winchester hadn't raised his boys to question the family business, only to be successful at it. Salt-and-burn was efficient and effective, and that made it good enough for Dean.

Sammy, though—Sammy had always been all about the questions, and now it seemed like he was dead set on finding the good in every bad thing they hunted. Vampires, demon-virus carriers, lovelorn ghosts…Jesus, what would be next? It was dangerous, over-thinking things. Slowed you down, left you vulnerable. Good soldiers, well-trained, acted appropriately by rote, Dad had always said….

But Dad was gone, and he'd left everything in Dean's hands. Like always. And Sam was still puzzling things out, like always, leaving Dean alone with the world on his shoulders.

Like always.

Dean lay down on his back atop the quilted coverlet of his bed, boots still on, not bothering to unstrap the brace on his leg, fidgeting until he was more or less comfortable. Not that he'd be uncomfortable for long, not with the dosage of Ox he'd taken. Him and opiates? Not the best combination, by a long shot. Vicodin had started screwing with him royally, and Demerol wasn't much better. Discounting morphine, that pretty much left oxycodone for whatever codeine or ibuprofen couldn't handle, and man, even codeine knocked him right out, flat on his ass. This stuff? Forget it—Dean could already feel his muscles relaxing. Huh. Maybe he should get Sam to take some….

"_She was dead all those years, and she still loved her husband," Sam had said out of the blue one night shortly after Molly's spirit had walked off to wherever she had gone._

_The comment had taken Dean by surprise until he saw Sam's face, and then he knew his little brother was thinking about Jessica again._

"_Of course she did," Dean had chided him kindly. "If it's real, love's not gonna go away just because somebody dies."_

_Sam had gone silent, the motel room oddly quiet but for the agitated rhythm of his thumb tapping pensively against the table where he sat._

_Dean had tried again. "He still loved her, too, you know."_

"_Yeah, I know."_

"_But it didn't stop him from getting on with his life." Dean had paused, not certain how far to take things. It was so hard to see Sam still hurting…._

"_Hey, Sam? You remember what you said to Molly, up in that cabin, talking about why ghosts stick around?"_

_Sam had raised bereft eyes to his brother, not sure of Dean's reference, and Dean had quirked a thoughtful smile._

"_You kept hoping she was gonna figure out the truth on her own, kept dropping hints, but she just wouldn't see. You told her that some spirits hold on too tight and can't let go."_

_Sam had frowned instantly, dropping his gaze and turning away, sure signs he knew just where Dean was headed and didn't want to follow._

_But he would, if Dean led him cautiously enough, gently enough. Slowly but surely, Sam would see the light._

"_Comes a time when you just have to move on, you know?" Dean had said softly. "Goes for ghosts, and for people, too."_

"_Yeah." _

_There'd been a lot of doubt in that single word, but that Sam had said it at all was miles ahead of where he'd ever been before, since Jessica's death._

_Dean had drawn in a deep breath, choosing his words carefully, voicing them even more carefully. "Sam. With all due respect. Think maybe it's time for you to really start moving on?"_

_The pause had seemed eternal, and Dean had finally given up hope that his brother was going to answer when the whisper came._

"_Yeah. Maybe."_

The oxycodone did what it always did, sending him drifting into deep sleep.

-:- -:- -:-

Sam was giggling, loud enough that Dean roused, stirring atop the covers; infectious enough that an answering smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. The giggle came again—fuller now, with some belly in it. It was the giddy chortle Sammy always used when Dad was tickling him, or playing some silly game that delighted the youngster no end. It generally finished with the little boy shrieking with laughter, begging gleefully for his big brother to come and join them, and sure enough, Dean heard the quick smack of light feet approaching across the hardwood floor. He felt the bed jolt as the little body thudded into it, and that was enough to set off the pain in his knee, jarring Dean awake with a hiss, reminding him where he was. Reminding him that Sam hadn't been four in a very long time. Reminding him that Dad was dead, the days of playing silly games well behind them all.

Goosebumps rose along his bare arms.

Eyes sweeping the room quickly, Dean struggled to sit up, wincing with the motion although he hadn't even loosened the brace and his knee was still stretched straight. He was alone and the suite was quiet, undisturbed even by noise from the street, the air heavy and still. His head ached dully, residue of too long a nap in too warm a room with too many painkillers numbing his senses. He felt sluggish, deadened, and he closed his eyes, began easing back down onto the pillows for more sleep when a whisper of ice caressed his cheek. Not quite there but not quite silent, he heard the giggle again. Not little Sammy's laugh, after all—no, this sounded like a young girl, very close by.

Dean's eyes flew open once more, his hand falling onto the shotgun that lay beside him. He sat up much faster this time, jacking a round into the chamber, searching every corner of the room. Held his breath for ten seconds, listening, but there was nothing—no footsteps, no laughter, salt undisturbed—and he reached cautiously to the night-stand to flick on the EMF meter.

Which was with Sam at the North Cedar Mine.

_Can't hunt on drugs, Winchester_. Dean gave himself a mental kick, confidence growing now that what he'd heard and felt weren't real, but induced by narcotics. Again. That really was _it_ for the oxycodone; he'd take pain over hallucinations any day.

He rose awkwardly from the bed, still logy from the meds, and staggered into the bathroom. At the sink, cool water running, he cupped his hands and slurped noisily, washing his mouth and spitting into the sink before gathering another handful to drink and yet another to splash over his face. It felt good, and Dean turned the water on full force, ducking low to douse his head as much as possible, letting it help wake him.

Then he thought he heard a rap on the outer door, followed by a series of quick thumps, light footsteps skipping along the hallway toward the lobby and the staircase.

_What the--? _

He turned off the tap with a quick twist, listening intently. _Nothing_. Water dripped from his eyelashes and streamed from his hair down his face and neck, soaking the collar of his t-shirt, and he snagged the hand towel and took a hurried swipe, every sense on alert.

There was another thump. Definitely someone upstairs, now.

"Sonofabitch."

He limped back to the bed and grabbed up the shotgun, eyes on the ceiling, tracking the footsteps through the beams and plaster. Back and forth along the hallway, from the sound, like someone running lightly. Or skipping.

And another sound, very faint. Someone—a female voice—singing. He thought he caught words, too, drifting down from the second floor:

_Come be my forever love_

_My lovely little turtle dove..._

This couldn't be the drugs.

Dean crossed the room swiftly and headed out, down the hall and past the reception desk to the foot of the stairs, rubbing the side of his head against an upraised shoulder to catch errant drops of water still trickling down from his hair. He halted at the landing, eying the staircase grimly, then set his jaw and began the slow ascent. One step at a time, starting with his left foot, planting it firmly, then angling his right foot up, knee kept stiff by the brace. It was graceless work. And slow. And noisier than he cared for, but he had no other options. Damned if he was going to use the friggin' service elevator.

He let his eyes flick back and forth, up and down, from the next step, to the top of the staircase, along the upper landing to what he could see of the hallway, then back to the next step. When the sound of running slowed and the singing died away to a whisper, his own breathing was harsh in his ears, and he froze, poised between risers, gaze pinned to the hallway.

There was a hesitant footfall, just past the corner, out of sight. Dean braced himself against the wall, raising the shotgun to his shoulder, prepared for whatever might come into view.

Nothing did. There was a slight sigh, like a sudden, surprised release of breath, and then the hurried _pat-pat-pat_ of retreating feet.

Jaw clenched, Dean hoisted himself up the next steps as quickly as he could, but he'd only reached the top landing when he heard the sharp slam of a door at the far end of the hall.

He hop-hobbled to the corridor entrance and plastered his back to the wall, then risked a quick, pivoting look around the corner. The hallway was empty—silent and shadowed.

He paused briefly until his breathing was even before moving into the hall, stopping at each door to test the knob. Locked, every one, until only the last remained: the door to Delilah Reardon's room, where the prosperous madam and grieving mother had fatally stabbed JT Markham.

Steeling himself, Dean twisted the knob quickly—it turned easily in his hand and the door sprang open as if in invitation. With a snarl he crossed the threshold, shotgun held ready, gaze flying to all corners, but the room was empty.

He realized he'd been holding his breath, which he released and replaced with a slow lungful of air, feeling the hairs rise on his arms, on the back of his neck. As though he were anticipating something. As though something were anticipating him. He stood for a long moment, eyes on the table where a knife and fork lay crosswise on one of the china plates.

"Looks like supper's over," he murmured.

Then the feeling of waiting leached away, soaking into the walls and floor and ceiling until the room was empty of everything but furniture and Dean. Whatever else had been in Delilah Reardon's room, it was gone now. That, he knew for a certainty.

Knee aching again fiercely, Dean took the service elevator back down to the first floor.

**-:- -:- -:-**

Steve hadn't run a power cable down to the Forty-Eight, so they used their headlamps again, Sam already tired of walking through the long tunnel with his shoulders hunched, his neck bent because of the low stone ceiling. He'd given Steve the big flashlight to use and kept the other for himself. The salt-gun was racked and ready.

The drift forty-eight hundred feet from the surface was just like the one at thirty-six hundred feet, big and dark and empty.

"Nothing to see down here," Steve whispered, his voice echoing oddly against the granite as they stepped out into the open space. "Nobody's been here in I don't know how lo—"

Their headlamps and flashlights died together, and the temperature in the giant room plummeted. Sam brought the salt-gun up, eyes searching the darkness, ears straining to hear anything other than the high-pitched moan that had started in Steve's throat.

"Stay calm, Steve," he ordered. "There's something here."

It was the wrong thing to say, because the moan gained strength.

"Nonononono," Steve pleaded. "I don't want to see anything else!"

"Quiet!" There was a tapping noise to his right and Sam jerked his head that way, but the noise faded instantly, starting up again to his left before dying away completely.

Steve plucked frantically at his sleeve. "Where's the tunnel?! It's too dark; I can't see! Please—let's get out of here!"

A long, low breath sounded in Sam's other ear, then, and he flinched, striking out with the stock of the shotgun but hitting nothing.

_Nothing there to hit._

The sudden movement caused Steve to shout and jump away.

"What was it? What was it?" he cried.

"Don't panic!" Sam said tersely. "If you panic, you'll run into something, get hurt!"

"_Haaaaaaaaa_—"

The breath had voice this time, raspy and unoiled, and Steve shrieked, turning to run and apparently tripping over his own feet, sprawling to the ground in an ungainly heap. He shot up immediately, but Sam grabbed a fistful of shirt at what felt like the mine-owner's shoulder and held him firmly in place.

"Steve! Listen to me! Do _not_ run!"

"_Haaaaaartsonnnnn_," the voice said, still mostly air but the name unmistakable. "_Miiiiine_."

Sam was suddenly aware that there was a vague light in the room. He could see the pale oval of Steve's face now, mouth working soundlessly, eyes wide with terror as the older man stared at something over Sam's shoulder.

Sam whirled to see the eldritch blue light coalescing into a shape roughly human, something long and thin beside it.

"Now, Steve! Go!" Sam commanded, bringing up the shotgun quickly and firing into the figure point-blank. The blast was nearly deafening, echoing along the drift, and the eerie light flared and died in the same instant.

After a long moment, Sam's headlamp began to glow dimly.

"Go!" he ordered again, turning and pushing Steve in the direction of the passageway, now faintly visible as a void in the darkness of the stone wall some twenty feet away. The mine-owner needed no further urging—he sprang toward the tunnel just as Sam's lamp faded again.

"_Haaaaartson!"_

The blue light was back, this time appearing between the two men, so that Sam could not shoot for fear of hitting Steve. As it coalesced, Sam could see that it was the spirit of a large man dressed in dusty trousers, suspenders pulled up over sweat-soaked flannel, ragged handkerchief around his neck and a long-handled shovel in his hand.

"Hey!" Sam shouted, angling for a shot.

The spirit turned, raising the shovel over its head and coming at Sam furiously, directly into the blast of the salt-gun.

Steve was at the tunnel mouth now, and Sam hurried to him in the on-again, off-again light from his headlamp. Steve's also glowed intermittently, although each of them had dropped their flashlights back in the drift somewhere when the ghost had first appeared.

"Come on," Sam ordered urgently. "We should go now."

And Steve shrieked again, Sam whirling to find the spirit fully materialized right behind him, shovel raised threateningly. It came down hard, Sam twisting awkwardly away at the last moment, throwing one hand up, and the shovel smacked brutally against his forearm rather than his head.

He cried out at the savage blow, dropping the salt-gun, his hand and arm numbed instantly all the way to the shoulder. Then the shovel came at him again with deadly intent, aimed at his head once more.

It struck him squarely, the hardhat taking the brunt of the damage, rigid plastic splitting as the flat of the blade hit. The suspension inside the hat couldn't provide much of a safety cushion, not against that force, and Sam barely had time to recognize the explosion of pain before he blacked out.

His unconsciousness was brief, and he reawakened suddenly, on his back on the rough stone floor, being dragged swiftly by his feet down into the drift, away from Steve.

"Run, Steve!" Sam yelled.

His shirt rode high on his chest as he was pulled along, the granite beneath him scraping exposed skin on his back and shoulders. He twisted to the right, kicking out at whatever had him—_had to be the ghost, right? Yeah, it was him—_and now the rock shredded his side and the sleeves of his shirts, scoring jagged weals in his arm which he could not feel. The safety-helmet had tumbled away when he went down, and his head bounced painfully against the granite. That, he _could_ feel.

The giant hands around his ankles released him suddenly, left him blinking dazedly in the blackness of the drift as the ghost moved back out into the passageway.

"_Haaaartson! Mmmmmiiiine!" _it roared angrily.

Again Sam could hear the words distinctly over Steve's terrified shrieks, and he scrambled to his feet, running back to the tunnel.

He couldn't really see Steve through the image of the spirit, which was now pretty solid, still glowing an unnatural blue. In that light Sam spied the salt-gun lying where he had dropped it, and he scooped it up quickly, racking in another load.

"Steve! Get down!" he thundered, then made sure Steve was on the ground before letting go with both barrels. The spirit wailed and vanished.

Sam grabbed another fistful of Steve's jacket and hauled him upright, then hustled him up the tunnel toward the Thirty-Six. His ears were ringing from the explosive sounds of the salt-gun and from the knocking his head had taken from the shovel and the granite floor; blood teased hotly from his temple down the side of his face. His arm was throbbing now, and the scrapes on his back and side stung, but he pushed Steve hard until at last they came to the lit chamber of the Thirty-Six.

Steve was gasping and crying as they hurried through the drift and along the upper passage, killing the generator on the way and loading themselves frantically into the man-skip. Sam hit the switch, engaging the hoist to take them back to the surface.

"It's all right," he told the mine-owner several times, or thought he did, anyway. His hearing still wasn't right, and he was so dizzy that twice Sam nearly pitched over the side of the man-skip as it clattered slowly along the rails up into the daylight.

But in another six minutes, they were out of the mine.

-:- -:- -:-

When he still couldn't get through to his brother's cell, Dean decided to take matters into his own hands. _Just_ _because the general was incommunicado didn't mean the troops couldn't show some initiative--time for recon_. He went out to cruise the streets of Rattlesnake.

Well. Hobble along the boarded sidewalks, more like, since Sam had the Impala with him up at the North Cedar.

He had to keep an eye on where he walked; some of the boards were warped with age and weather, ready to trip up the unobservant. Falling flat on his face on a public sidewalk was just about the last thing Dean needed right now. Not without being drunk, anyway.

He thought briefly about ducking into the bar across from the café on Eureka Street, but blew it off as a bad idea. The oxycodone had stopped working on the throb in his knee, but it was still doing a pretty good number on his head. _Fucking opiates._

He'd never had hallucinations with the painkiller before, not like he'd had with whatever it was Jo had given him back in Duluth. Still, there was a first time for everything, Dean guessed, as he watched the slim figure of an Asian woman in brightly colored silk robes and a coolie hat float along the sidewalk a block and a half east on Eureka. She disappeared neatly into one of the town's old buildings, and he huffed a sigh.

Could be a ghost, he supposed, although it was still broad daylight and most Caspers preferred the dark. Pretty, whatever she was.

There was a park at the end of Yankee Street, two blocks south, past an array of brick and wood storefronts of varying heights and purposes. Some had awnings colorful-or-not, others were bare-faced to the elements. Whiskey-barrel tubs along the way overflowed with those little purple and yellow flowers in front of the antique dealer's, a print shop, a sandwich joint and the local welfare office—pretty much the usual in a burg like this, Dean thought. _Select town name, insert here_; he'd seen it all before.

He limped his way to the park, just because he could, determined that his knee and the brace would not get the best of him. But he spent a long moment standing in the shade of the big oak, resting, back against the trunk and his eyes closed, gathering his strength.

Ah, God, he sure as hell had never figured on his life turning out like this. Not that he spent much time thinking about it, that was for damn sure. What was the point, when the chaos and violence of their lives was predictable only in its unpredictability and in its ubiquity. Shit came out of nowhere, but it always came.

This thing with the demon that had killed their mom? No way Dean had ever seen that one on the horizon, no matter he'd spent his entire life chasing after ol' Yellow-Eyes with their dad. Sammy and his visions, Sammy and whatever superpowers he had, whatever connection to the dark side; Dad's last words, his death. Christ, each one had struck so hard out of left field that Dean sometimes felt he was still reeling from the blows. None of it made any sense. Save Sam or kill him? Who the fuck could possibly expect Dean to _kill_ Sam? All he'd ever done was watch out for the guy, and now…

_Stop thinking, Dean._

He ground the heel of his hand into his eye-socket, relishing the distraction of the sparks he created in his eye or in his brain or wherever the hell they happened. Something he could control, anyway—don't want sparks in your brain? Then don't rub your damn eye.

"_Dean, I can see fireworks!"_

_He'd been ten when he'd looked up from his car magazine to see his little brother pressing his fingers hard against his eyelids, face scrunched with delighted concentration._

"_Don't do that," Dean had ordered casually, returning to his reading, but of course Sam had gone right ahead._

"_There's all kinds of colors, Dean, and they're sparking everywhere. What are they? Why do they do that?"_

_Dean had been short on answers and shorter on patience, as so often happened when he was worried about Dad, out doing God knows what, so he'd snapped angrily._

"_Stop it, Sammy! You're right—they're sparks. And if one of them gets into your brain, it's going to blow up! You want that to happen?"_

_Sam had dropped his hands immediately, his jaw dropping, too; his curiosity overwhelmed by sudden fright. He'd burst into tears, of course, as Dean should have known he would, and it had taken a dish of ice cream and an extra half-hour of cartoons before the incident was forgotten._

Dean snorted at the memory of his brother as an inquisitive six-year-old and himself so much a man of the world, even before he'd reached double digits. Man of the world, pawn of the world…

_Fuck, Dean! Stop thinking!_

He shoved off from the tree and headed back down Yankee toward Eureka Street, badly wanting a drink, badly wanting his knee to be whole, badly wanting that Sam not be—yeah. Badly wanting.

He was still more than a block away from The Baron when the Impala turned the corner off of Cedar and stopped in front of the hotel. He could tell there were two people in the front seat, but what drew Dean's attention most was the fact that his baby's black coat was seriously dulled with a thick dusting of bright yellow pine pollen. He groaned inwardly. _Strike one for Sammy_.

Then he snorted, deriding himself. Like springtime was Sam's fault.

But when the driver's door opened and Steve Hartson stepped out through it, Dean frowned and picked up his pace; started counting again. _Strike two_.

Then Sam eased open the passenger door, hoisting himself painfully up, his giant, grasping hands leaving prints in the pollen on the roof and along the door frame. The kid was clearly not firing on all cylinders.

_Strike thr—aw,_ _hell. Game friggin' over_.

Despite the brace, Dean began to run.

-:- -:- -:-

_Thanks for reading! Comments are welcomed._


	4. Chapter 4

_My heartfelt appreciation for all your encouraging feedback (Osteogal and casammy, this includes you! Gracias por leer mi cuento y tomar el tiempo de criticarlo!)—I'm so grateful for the comments, and the alerts, and just the fact that you've opened Chapter Four. I hope you enjoy it when you read it. _

**Rush**

**Chapter Four**

Steve Hartson hurried around the car to help, but Sam heard Dean coming up the sidewalk like a freight-train; could see even all the way down the block the hard look in his brother's green eyes as Dean barreled awkwardly toward them. Sam warned the mine-owner off with a frown both pained and impatient.

Assessing the damage as he approached, Dean slowed—_harder than hell to run in a fucking knee-brace, and he'd entirely forgotten he could unlock the damn thing_—then twisted his face into a censuring glower. There was a list in Sammy's stance, but he was upright; still had two arms and two legs and more hair than was necessary. Even so, now that he was out of the car, Sam was holding his right arm close to him, and as Dean neared, he could see the bruise blossoming on his brother's cheekbone, the split on his lower lip.

"Sam?"

Sam was doing a little assessing of his own, or trying to, with his head still swimming and one eye squinted a little from the hurt of it. Dean looked wrung out, naturally favoring his right leg, pale with more than just anger. But he was definitely pissed as hell, and Sam felt his own ire rise that Dean might have been overdoing it with his damaged knee.

"Damn it, Dean, slow down!" Sam said through gritted teeth, realizing suddenly that Steve was hovering anxiously at his elbow, watching the storm gather on Dean's face as the distance between them dwindled. From Steve's expression, Sam thought he must have looked pretty thunderous himself.

Dean pulled up short in front of them, breathing hard, eyes momentarily pinned to Sam's, taking in the white, battered face, then flicking to his brother's arm. As he'd come up the boardwalk, Dean hadn't been able to see the shredded cloth, nor the blood, but up close was a different story.

Sam shifted, glance dropping to Dean's knee, then back up at the sweat on his brother's brow, the lines of pain around his mouth. The two squared off, tension arcing between them like bolts of lightning.

"Sam." Dean's voice was a growl, and Sam huffed, aggravated.

"Stop, Dean. I know what you're going to say."

"You have no idea what I'm gonna—"

"Oh, really? 'Cause I could say the exact same thing to you."

"I'm not the one bleedin' here, Sammy."

"And I'm not the one who's gonna walk with a permanent limp if he's not careful!"

Eyes locked and gazes laced with anger, the two glared fiercely at one another, Steve standing to one side and watching apprehensively. The angry words seemed ended, but now something else was going on, the mine-owner realized, recognizing from the quirk of eyebrow, the twitch of lip and slight tilt of head that an entire conversation was occurring in silence between the brothers as each assured himself that the other was all right.

There were unspoken questions and tacit excuses; accusations and challenges. It seemed that at any moment the Winchesters might erupt in fury, and Steve wondered what he should do when the fists began to fly.

But then Sam's chin dropped, and Dean raised one shoulder almost insignificantly--apologies offered and forgiveness granted, on both sides; relief expressed that no permanent damage had been done. The tension suddenly evaporated, the entire incident over within moments.

Steve realized his mouth was hanging open, the connection between the two Winchesters almost as uncanny as anything else he'd seen that day, and he let the breath he'd been holding gust out of him.

"Can we go inside and talk over a beer?" he asked, voice still a little shaky. "I'd kind of like to know what the hell happened in my mine just now."

"So would I," Dean said, digging the key to the hotel's front door out of his pocket while surreptitiously taking another glance at the impressive knot on Sam's forehead. It was mostly hidden beneath his brother's unkempt hair, but Sam was squinting slightly on that side, and Dean had no doubt it was painful. Probably what had Sam a little green around the gills, too.

It galled the older man that they'd split up and Sam had gotten hurt, although he'd have to wait until he'd heard their story before Dean could righteously beat himself up too badly for not having been at the mine with his brother and Steve. If he hadn't blown out his knee, things would be different; as it was, he was a liability, and if a situation went south, as it apparently had today, Sam was likely better off without him.

_Damn it to hell, that sucked. _

Still, it was true, and Dean's part this gig was going to be pretty limited to recon and research until he could fucking move like he needed to; he was resigned to that much.

_But sonofabitch, it sucked out loud_.

"You gonna need looking at?" Dean asked succinctly as they headed through The Baron's lobby. Sam started to shake his head but thought better of it instantly. He winced, veering a little and nearly bumping against the hallway wall while Dean pressed his mouth tight, keeping his hands to himself as his brother answered.

"No, just a new shirt. I cleaned up a little at the mine."

"He threw up on the way back here," Steve offered, Sam cautiously tossing him a glare as the younger Winchester opened the door to their suite and stepped inside.

"In my car?" Dean snapped, and Steve was quick to deny it.

"But I couldn't get him to go see the doctor," the mine-owner finished lamely, lingering in the hall.

"I'm all right," Sam said wearily, and Dean snorted.

"Yeah, you've always had a pretty hard head," the older man noted, his voice a low growl, keeping the comment between brothers.

"You're a riot, Dean. I'll laugh later."

Sam shuffled to the end of his bed and gratefully sank down onto it, falling back slowly onto the coverlet and bolting upright again at the thought of getting blood on Melanie Markham's fine linens. Both moves were bad ideas.

_He'd had no trouble keeping it together while he and Steve had been out at the North Cedar; in fact, all things considered, Sam thought he'd done a helluva fine job controlling the situation. Could've gone better if he'd been able to get a good read on who the ghost was, down in the Forty-Eight; and he could have done without the blows to his arm and head. Could've done without Dean catching him prying himself out of the Impala, too, trying to keep his nausea to himself, this time, and wishing sincerely that the world would stop spinning._

_Still, he'd gotten Steve out of the mine safely, and he'd gotten himself out of the car, both monumental successes. Funny how, now that he was back at the room with Dean watching him closely, the competent leader Sam had been could surrender point without a second thought, demoting himself to wingman and leaving it to Dean to run the show once more. Grown man back to little brother in the blink of an eye—if he'd had the ability to think straight, Sam might've been troubled by that. Right now, though, he needed to concentrate on keeping his head from splitting open...._

Dean pursed his lips, watching his brother struggle, then pivoted gingerly toward the settee to gather their first aid supplies from one of the duffels he'd tossed there earlier.

"Steve, grab some brews from the fridge—"

"Ox!" Sam interjected sharply, one hand gingerly probing the knot on his head, the other lying limp and swollen beside him.

Dean pulled up short, huffing a perturbed sigh.

"Thank you for the reminder, Doctor Prohibition," he said testily. "Steve, help _yourself_ to a beer, and see if there's some water in there for Sam. Ice, too, okay? There's a bucket on the counter. Sammy, get your shirt off and let me take a look at the damage. What happened?"

Sam seemed to deflate as he began to recount the story, fading fast as Dean satisfied himself that the bones in Sam's right arm hadn't broken again; that the long, red weals down his side and on his back and arm were mostly ugly scrapes and had been sufficiently tended. When it became apparent from Steve's frequent interruptions that the younger Winchester was having more than a little trouble keeping events in their proper order, Dean rolled his eyes and held up his hand.

"Sam, stop. Lie down and let Steve tell it."

He pushed Sam gently back onto the bed, wrapped ice cubes into hand towels from the bathroom and applied the makeshift cold-packs to his brother's injured forearm and the knot on his brow. Sam frowned at the contact but did not complain, instead brushing Dean off to tend to himself, turning his face away from the light of the bedside lamp as Steve took up the narrative.

"We've got real ice-packs, you know," the young hunter grumbled.

"Yeah, and we've got real ice, too," Dean said mildly, pulling the shotgun and EMF meter from Sam's jacket, tossing them on his own bed before finally snagging a water for himself. "Jeez, Sam, quit bein' such a sourpuss. Steve, spill. What happened?"

It took another five minutes, but ultimately Sam thought Steve had done a pretty good job of the telling, considering the mine-owner had been terrified pretty much from the moment the ghost mule had appeared in the upper drift.

"Then Sam let loose with the shotgun, that thing disappeared and we got the hell out of there," Steve concluded, voice gone from shaky to awed and back again.

"And you have no idea who the spirit was?" Dean asked, and their client tilted his head back as though he'd find an answer on the ceiling.

"I gotta say, Dean, I wasn't exactly thinking clearly, or trying to take the time to recognize anybody. Ten solid minutes, all I could say was 'Holy crap.' I was so scared, I pissed myself. Besides that, all I know is that that guy came at me, and Sam got in his way. I've never seen anything like it, and I hope to God I never see anything like it ever again. I was fricking terrified."

"You did good, Steve," Sam demurred quietly, his eyes closed as he held the ice against his forehead. "Thanks for helping me."

"Oh, no, Sam," Steve replied, shaking his head. "I owe you big. You were like John Wayne or the Terminator down there; I'm not kidding. I think I'd be dead now if it wasn't for you."

Dean let his gaze roam casually over his little brother, allowing the mine-owner's story of what had happened in the North Cedar to sink in, a faint line forming between his brows.

_Sam knew his business, that was for sure—he'd been trained by the best, after all, and he'd learned well, there was no denying. Smartest guy Dean had ever known, too; and during the years he'd been at school, in the time they'd spent together since, Sam had grown up in ways that the older man sometimes found perplexing. Maybe even a little intimidating, not that Dean would ever admit it._

_In a lot of ways, Sam had become more mature than Dean figured he himself was ever going to be—sure as hell had outpaced Dean physically, even if the Sasquatch size sometimes got in the way. Rock-hard, too, but still hanging on to that soft, chewy center that gave the kid…well, it gave him heart. Compassion in a wrought-iron shell. The combination of all of it had turned Sammy into a force to be reckoned with, and damn it to hell if Dean wasn't as proud as he could be of his geeky little brother. _

_Thing was? Sam "The Terminator" Winchester was _still_ his little brother, and there were just too many ways to screw up on the job and get killed for your troubles…. _

Gauging by the exhaustion in his voice and on his face, Sam was just about out of it, and Dean gave himself a mental shake, bringing the rehash to an end.

"So, Steve, we've still got some research to do on twenty-three guys who died at your mine—see if we can't figure out who Casper is and move him out permanently. You're sure there's nobody with bad blood between your family and him?"

"Nobody I can think of," Steve said with a resigned shrug, straightening from where he'd been leaning against the kitchen counter, now-empty beer bottle still in his hand. "None of our crew, anyway, although you're always going to have what they call 'disgruntled employees.' Part of the business, you know? Weird that that thing—God, it's so unreal, it's like I can't even say the _word_ 'ghost'—anyway, it's weird that the guy kept saying 'Hartson Mine.'"

Dean angled his head. "The North Cedar ever been called that?"

"Sure, practically since the beginning."

"But when this ghost was sayin' that, you didn't think he was…like, saying _your_ name? Sorta _calling_ you?"

The very notion seemed to set Steve back, his anxiety rising again. "Why? Why would he do that? How could he know me? No, Dean—no! He was talking about the North Cedar, I'm certain! It was something about the North Cedar!"

From the bed, Sam let out an impatient sigh, turning his head away from them with a frown, his eyes still closed.

Dean jerked his chin at Steve, and the two men headed out into the hallway, Steve giving the fish-eye to the salt at the door and stepping wide over it.

"Anyway," the mine-owner continued in a hoarse whisper, "you think you're going to be able to, uh—what? Exorcise it, or something?"

"Or something," Dean said, ushering Steve ahead of him to move him down the hall and back toward the hotel lobby. He threw a glance back at Sam, who appeared to be asleep now, and opted to leave the door open. He'd feel better, knowing he'd be able to hear, if Sammy needed him.

Steve was still whispering, his expression haunted as he considered his limited options. "Look, Dean, whoever that guy was, he was vicious. I think he wanted to kill me. I've got the state inspector coming tomorrow, but I can't risk anyone else getting hurt. Maybe I should just dynamite the North Cedar; close it up completely, once and for all."

Dean clapped him on the shoulder, forcing cheer into his voice as they stepped out onto the pollen-covered veranda. "Let Sammy and me do our job before you go settin' off any charges," he commanded jovially, preparing himself to run right over what he had to say next.

However heartfelt, the words weren't easy, and Dean cleared his throat before he started.

"Hey, Steve…thanks for bein' there for my brother today. Getting him out of the mine, helping him clean up, bringing him back here—I appreciate it."

He put out a hand, and Steve clasped it warmly, shaking his head at the same time.

"I didn't do anything, Dean, except drive a car and freak the hell out," the mine-owner admitted without shame. "Getting us out of there was all Sam's doing, believe me."

For a moment Dean searched the man's eyes, once again seeing the truth reflected there.

"Yeah," he said finally, scratching an ear in an effort to cover his discomfort, guilt gnawing at his gut that he hadn't been where he should've been. "Well. I know it still couldn't have been easy for you. So, uh, we'll call you in the morning; let you know what the plan is. You're okay to drive, right? Where's your truck?"

Steve looked around in bemusement, as though expecting his pick-up to appear out of thin air in the late-afternoon light. "Oh, uh—up at the mine still."

"I can run you back, if you need—" Dean offered, but Steve's eyes finally settled on the brace, and he smiled slightly, shaking his head.

"I'll head down to the café, get somebody to give me a lift. Sam said it was going to be tough for you, not being able to drive for a while. I can see why—the Impala's a beaut."

"She is that," Dean agreed proudly. Then he grimaced, having taken a fresh look at his baby, parked in front of them. "Least she will be, once I get all that pollen off. Just waxed her last week, too."

"Yeah, I hear it's worse this year than it's been in a while. Okay, I better get going. See you tomorrow, I guess."

Steve stuffed his hands in his pockets, found the Chevy's keys there and handed them over sheepishly. Still he lingered, expression again troubled.

"It'll be all right," Dean told him firmly.

"Yeah. Okay. Bobby Singer said you're the best."

Dean nodded. "Bobby Singer doesn't lie, and you've already seen what Sam can do."

-:- -:- -:-

He took a moment to lock the front door of the hotel behind him as he re-entered, noting darkly the boot-prints they'd left in the thin layer of yellow pollen coating the entryway floor. It was still friggin' unnerving how much the stuff looked like sulfur. Last time he'd seen _that_ shit, they'd been in Peoria, looking for Ava; there'd been no trace left when Meg had taken Sam, none that Dean had found, anyhow. Now, he shook his head slightly—if there was sulfur here, there was no way they could ever tell.

On his way back to the suite, Dean cast a quick eye up at the second-floor landing, but everything seemed quiet.

His brother barely stirred when he closed the door and limped around to where Sam lay at the end of the far bed, boat-sized feet still on the floor, arms lax at his sides. Dean placed a gentle hand on Sam's shoulder.

"Hey. You doin' all right?"

"Sleep it off," Sam mumbled, voice more breath than sound.

"Well, get your shoes off, then, and hit the sack. Come on, Sammy—take you ten seconds, and then you can go nighty-night."

Sam pouted, steeling himself for the effort, then opened his eyes, took a deep breath and rolled to his side, pushing off one elbow until he was sitting upright. He discovered instantly that he'd made the wrong move.

"Whoa."

Alarmed by the green in his brother's face, Dean looked quickly for a waste basket, one hand still gripping Sam's bicep, helping to support him.

"You gonna hurl? No? Okay, look, you just scoot up—yeah, move up. Sam? No, no, I'll get the shoes, you just—easy! Come on, Sammy, I'll help, but you gotta—_oof_. Dude, move your ass back up on the bed, wouldja?"

Together they got Sam situated about where he needed to be, sitting with his knees over the edge of the mattress, his feet flat on the floor between the two beds, sheet and blankets pulled back.

Sitting awkwardly on the edge of his own bed, Dean set to work on the laces of Sam's shoes.

"Head bad?" he asked, keeping his voice quiet.

"'S not good." Sam was listing to one side, his eyes shut tight, his face pinched.

"Arm?"

"'S not bad."

"Glad to hear. So, a ghost mule, huh? That seems kinda funny."

A smile tugged at Sam's mouth as the first shoe came off. "Smelled kinda funny, too," he murmured.

Dean reared back slightly, nostrils curling. "Dude. The mule, or your socks?"

"Nice. Thanks." The smile faded and the line between Sam's brows deepened as he probed the split on his bottom lip with his tongue. "Hey, Dean?"

"Yeah?"

There was a knot in the second set of laces, so it took a little longer to loosen them. _Jesus, once a big brother, always…._

"Y'okay? Your knee? Everything?"

Dean kept his fingers working, knowing that the slightest hesitation might betray him. Sam's radar was damn sharp, even when he was mostly out of it, and right now the kid just needed to catch some down-time. There'd be plenty of opportunity in the morning to tell him about the giggling and the footsteps and the singing on The Baron's second floor.

About everything, if Dean chose to tell him at all.

So he nodded, although Sam's eyes were still closed. "Yeah, I got some rest this afternoon. Don't worry about it."

"I do." The words fell out of his brother's mouth, Sam's chin bobbing on his chest as the day took its toll.

Dean tugged off the second shoe with a grunt, dumping it unceremoniously to the floor beside the other one. "Yeah, I know you do. Come on, now—lights out."

He placed a hand on Sam's shoulder and applied a steady, gentle pressure, little brother taking the cue and toppling slowly onto his pillow. He was already asleep when Dean gently pulled the covers over him.

-:- -:- -:-

Hours later, Dean rubbed the heels of his hands into tired eyes, snapping the laptop shut and kicking back from the table. Worse than finding nothing related to Gold Rush-era ghosts, he'd found hundreds of thousands of references to alleged hauntings in the Sierra Nevada foothills. The stories on the Web were short, vague and prolific—but not a one of them was about the North Cedar Mine. Or The Baron Hotel. Or about Rattlesnake, for that matter.

Oh, he'd found a fair number of touristy snapshots of local sights, particularly the headstone the Markhams had mentioned, but it seemed as though the town's spirits hadn't made it to the Internet, yet**. **

Worse still, that damn song was in his head.

_Something my forever love _

_something something turtle dove_

He thought briefly about dosing up on meds again, his knee bugging him more than he wanted to admit, but he really didn't like the way the oxycodone made him feel, nor the way it knocked him out. Besides, with Sammy down, Dean needed to stay on top of things.

As best he could, anyway.

He shook his head slowly, reflecting on how many ways he'd been worse than worthless so far on this gig—not staying sharp; not finding out what they needed to know; not being around when he needed to be. Leaving Sam to deal with things by himself without knowing what they were up against; getting him hurt. _Dean_ getting hurt in the first place, although even he had to admit that that one had mostly been the usual Winchester bad luck.

_Fuck_. Truth was, he'd been a total screw-up ever since their dad had died; couldn't count a single thing he'd done right in the time since. Looking back over the past months was like reviewing the Top Twenty list of Dean Winchester's Biggest Effing Mistakes Ever, counting down to Number One, him sitting on his ass in this chair with a damn knee-brace, his little brother hurt and hunting on his own.

_God, he needed to get his head back in the game…._

A noise from across the room caught Dean's attention, and he turned to give Sam the once-over. Kid was frowning in his sleep, lower lip sticking out as he kicked at the blankets, then rolled over with a huff, burying his face in the pillow.

"Nrf," Sam complained impatiently, kicking again so that the covers were pulled aside. "Honey!"

Dean felt his eyebrows crawl up his forehead as he grinned, his ill humor momentarily forgotten. God knew what his brother was dreaming, but it sounded like it might be a good time, despite Sam's pout. Wasn't a nightmare, that was for sure.

He yawned cavernously, stretching, then checked his watch. It was nearly one-thirty, and it had been a long day, with a longer one ahead of them. Time for bed.

He hoisted himself up out of his chair and limped into the bathroom, opting to save the shower for the morning, but brushing his teeth and sluicing warm water over his face and the back of his neck. He swiped a towel over wet flesh and yawned again, stripping off his shirt as he headed back into the bedroom, dragging the blankets up over Sam as he passed, emptying the pockets of his jeans and depositing coins, keys and cell phone quietly beside the EMF meter and pill bottle he'd already placed on the night-stand between the two beds. Then he leaned down to loosen the Velcro cross-straps on his knee-brace.

There was a soft thump from somewhere nearby, followed by a timid knock—a single tap—and Dean froze instantly, on alert. His brother was still passed out, unmoving, so he shot a quick look at the EMF meter. Nothing. When no other sound followed, Dean moved as quickly as possible around the foot of his bed and headed for the door.

Whatever it was, it was out in the hall. He could feel it biding its time, just as it had up in Delilah Reardon's room, a thick and pensive stillness waiting just for him. He glanced down briefly, checking the salt-line, then took a deep breath and flung open the door.

But it was as though a balloon had popped, leaving nothing behind, the hallway suddenly empty.

Puzzled, Dean leaned out, looking up and down the corridor. No thumps, no skips, no _tra-la-la_ this time, just a whole lot of nothing. He frowned, glancing again at the salt-line.

"Huh."

They'd tracked the pine pollen in with them earlier, scattering it down the hallway as they came, the prints of his boots and Sam's shoes and whatever the hell waffle-soled things Steve had been wearing clearly visible as foot-sized places-not-yellow on the dark wooden flooring. Amidst them just across the salt-line was another, much smaller print, as if someone—a child, maybe, or a petite woman—had been standing patiently there, waiting to be asked inside.

Dean cleared his throat and made a last check of the hallway, then swung the door closed, his brow furrowed. He tossed another glance at Sam, still buried in blankets on the far bed, then moved toward the weapons duffel stashed beneath the settee. He was feeling a little naked, and a loaded shotgun was just the cure for that.

He'd almost gotten past his own bed when the wall-lamp dimmed suddenly, the temperature plummeting, and he whirled back toward the door.

The woman who flickered into life right in front of him was dressed in red, impressive décolletage on display in her low-cut dressing gown. She was small, dark hair piled high to give her height, curling tendrils artistically arranged to frame her face and accentuate her long neck. Except for her fierce and angry expression, she was beautiful, but her eyes flashed with grief and fury, and her lips were pulled back in a snarl.

In an instant, her image faltered and solidified, stuttering, as did the string of unladylike oaths she spat at him.

"_Give me—daughter!"_ Dean heard clearly as she shrieked into his face_. "Own child, Ja—Mark—killed her!"_

Intent on what she was saying, he didn't notice the knife clutched in her right hand until she raised it suddenly and plunged it into his chest.

-:- -:- -:-

_Something was wrong. _

Sam tossed his head on the pillow, letting the movement pull him finally from sleep. His mouth was dry, stuffed with cotton, and he licked his lips, tongue instantly finding the split on the lower one, tasting the dried blood there.

_How the hell did _that_ happen?_

He let out a soft moan, vaguely registering that it was the only sound in the room, then ran middle finger and thumb over his lashes, breaking the gummy seals on his eyes and blinking them open.

That task accomplished, he probed cautiously at the throbbing knot at his hairline—it was a sizable lump, hot and tender, and Sam decided it was better left alone. Wished it would leave _him_ alone, but his head was pounding, the ache finding its way through his molars and down to his stomach, making him nauseous. The pain in his right forearm didn't help matters, either.

The room was dark, a little light from the back alley spilling in at the edges of the drapes, but most of it effectively shut out. The television was off, there was no glow from the laptop, and the bathroom was quiet and vacant.

But he'd heard something, he was sure of it. Something that had awakened him…

Sam frowned and turned his head a little more. His brother's bed was empty; didn't even look like it had been slept in, although the spread was slightly rumpled and askew.

"Dean?"

His cautious, whispered call got no response.

Sam carefully pulled his elbows under him, raised up on them timidly until he was fairly certain his head would not explode. The change in altitude set the room reeling, his stomach following suit. He stilled instantly, groaning once, eyes shut as things settled down; then he tried again, pushing off the wrinkled sheet until he was sitting up. Again he paused, eyes still closed as his body adjusted to the new position.

He remembered the attack at the mine, and had vague, disjointed recollections of the trip to town, Steve behind the wheel of the Impala, Dean running to meet them down a sidewalk dusted in yellow. After that, things got a little fuzzy…before, too, for that matter.

He reached out to flick the switch on the bedside lamp, wincing as the low-wattage light lanced directly through his skull. Dean's cell was on the nightstand, the EMF meter sitting beside it, along with the car-keys and a little pile of change, no doubt dredged from the bottom of his brother's pockets. Plus a prescription bottle of OxyContin.

Sam's frown deepened, and he spoke again into the emptiness.

"Dean."

His brother had been hurt, too. Of that, Sam was fairly certain—he didn't think the meds belonged to him, although both his head and his arm ached furiously. No, there was also something wrong with Dean, and it had separated the Winchesters, somehow, forcing them apart so that—

Sam's eyes opened wide.

He'd_ shot_ him! Sam had fucking _shot_ his brother, had tried to _kill_ him!

Searing images erupted into life inside Sam's brain: _Dean at the edge of the pier, in his sights, Sam's hand holding a gun trained on his brother's heart. His finger pulling the trigger. Dean falling._

The young hunter felt the panic surge through him, adrenaline flooding his veins, bile spilling into his mouth with a rush that nearly set him gagging. He choked out a cry, the memories suddenly so sharp that--

_Wait._

_Oh, God, please wait just a second…. _

The terror drained away suddenly, leaving Sam gasping, his hands trembling with relief as he remembered the difference between where he was and where he had been. This was Rattlesnake; the pier was a blast from the past, from back in Duluth, and he and Dean had come some distance since then. Dean had pretty much moved on from that particular nightmare, and while Sam had been a little slower to recover, he was still well along the road to forgiving himself for nearly having been the instrument of his brother's death.

_No, whatever was going on now, it was an entirely different situation._

Sam blinked hard, trying to will clarity back into his aching skull, synapses there firing more regularly now, filling the gaps between weeks and days and hours and minutes in a way that left him both relieved and even more uneasy. Now he remembered the house in Elko; remembered watching Dean fly headlong down the stairs, his knee coming apart against the railing. Remembered the slide-pop of relocating his brother's patella, Dean gripping Sam's jacket tight as he urged him on through clenched teeth_—"Do it, Sammy, do it!"—_remembered the sudden, utter relief on the older man's face as his kneecap slipped with a jerk back where it belonged, the gorge rising in Sam's throat at how it felt to rearrange parts inside his brother's body.

_After a trip under protest to the ER, Dean had been wearing a brace and taking painkillers, bitching about it all like nobody's business, but he was going to be fine, if he'd just take it easy for once. Only, where was he?_

Suddenly the silence was pressing hard against him. Sam got his feet on the floor and waited impatiently for the next wave of dizziness to pass, chin to his chest, hands clenched into fists atop his thighs. Noted again how the spread on Dean's bed was tweaked toward the far side, as though someone had pulled it, and his voice took on a sharper edge.

"Dean!"

Sam pushed up through his legs until he was standing, arms extended just a little for balance, new altitude affording him a glimpse of (_something_) huddled on the other side of Dean's bed, barely visible over the edge of the mattress. His stomach twisted again, and Sam moved quickly, stumbling over his own discarded shoes in his haste.

Dean lay collapsed on the floor—unconscious, half-naked, curled protectively around himself except for his right leg angled away, straight out, his face washed in gray.

Sam was at his brother's side in an instant, feeling rapidly for the thready pulse beneath his jaw, cupping a big hand around the back of Dean's head, fingers combing through his hair, feeling for trauma. A visual once-over found no sign of bleeding anywhere on his body, but Dean's skin was clammy and cold, and Sam grabbed at the bedspread, sliding it toward them, draping it quickly over the unconscious man.

_Oh, God. Opiate reaction?_

Thumbing up an eyelid, he watched Dean's dilated pupil remain large despite the light and quickly checked the other eye, getting the same response.

_Probably not the meds, then_; instead, his brother was exhibiting classic symptoms of shock.

"Damn it! Dean, wake up!"

Sam took hold of his brother's shoulders and pulled him far enough away from the bed to lay him out flat, then used an open hand to smack Dean's cheek, trying to jolt him into wakefulness.

"Dean!"

Dean's eyes flew wide, startled and befuddled at once, and Sam felt the relief wash through him for the second time in minutes, carrying with it some of the ache from his throbbing head.

"'S goin' on?" the older man slurred.

"Jesus, Dean, you about gave me a heart attack. You okay?"

Dean's expression grew more perplexed, but his diction was clearer. "Why'm I on the floor?"

"You tell me, man."

"Hear that? Sammy, tell me you hear that!"

The older man was flustered, his eyes becoming wider still as he cocked his head, listening intently.

Sam heard nothing but the blood rushing in his ears as he knelt on the floor at Dean's side, a warm hand on his brother's shoulder. "Easy, man—take it easy. Hear what?"

"Flowers. There's flowers.... Oh, God!"

Dean's hands shot to his chest, fingers scrabbling first at the blanket and then against the bare flesh of his sternum as he looked down at himself in horrified surprise, then up to meet Sam's anxious gaze.

"Dean! What?"

"She stabbed me!"

Sam drew his brows together, then shook his head. "No, Dean—you're okay. I think, anyway. See? No blood, no wounds. Come on, can you get up? It's the Ox, man. You're hallucinating."

He helped Dean pull himself to a sitting position, then parked himself beside his frowning brother, shoulder to shoulder, both of them shifting so their backs were against the bed. Then Dean tested the air timidly, his face darkening with consternation.

"You don't hear that?" he asked, and Sam threw up his hands.

"No, Dean. No, I don't _hear_ flowers."

Dean shot him a look, as though Sam had suddenly grown a second head. "Music, Sam. You didn't hear music just now? Like, that lovey-dove song? Sonofabitch, that hurts!" He winced, left hand on his chest again, but the other was massaging the top of his right thigh, between the Velcro straps of the knee-brace.

"Dean, what happened? Did you trip, or pass out, or what?" Sam asked, his patience wearing thin now that his panic had subsided and Dean seemed—well, more Dean-like.

Not unconscious or dead, anyway, and for that Sam was grateful.

His brother seemed less confused, but he still wasn't making much sense. "It's not the drugs, Sammy. I haven't had any since this afternoon. I'm telling you, Delilah Reardon showed up in our room, man, and tried to kill me. I took that pig-sticker straight to the heart."

"But there's not a mark on you, Dean."

Sam twisted to the side so he could search his brother's face carefully. After Duluth, they'd learned the hard way—_and was there any other way for Winchesters to learn?_—that Dean reacted badly to certain opiates; that some of them sometimes caused him to hallucinate vividly, among other less-than-desirable side effects. The sincerity in Dean's expression only meant that he believed what he was saying, not that it had actually happened.

Of course, in their line of work, even the unbelievable was believable. Or vice versa.

Sam pressed his lips together, finally giving in. "Okay. So she stabbed you, but you're not hurt. That means, what? She was an echo? A residual haunting, replaying the night she killed JT Markham?"

Brow wrinkling, Dean shook his head. "Maybe, but why here? Mitch and Melanie told us that JT got stabbed upstairs in the honeymoon suite."

"Yeah, and then he made it all the way down here before he died in his wife's arms, remember? I don't know, man, maybe Delilah followed him downstairs. Ghosts don't always make sense."

Dean's chuckle was humorless. "Tell me about it. Yeah, I guess that could be it…"

Sam nodded as he sat back against the bed-frame. "And you fainted from the surprise, so—"

"I did not faint, Sam."

"No. Right. You went into psychogenic shock when you thought she stabbed you—"

A quick frown. "Psycho what, now?"

"Psychogen—never mind. You ready to try getting up?"

In all honesty, Dean wasn't sure he even _wanted_ to get up, he was that tired. And sore. The thought of sleeping on the floor had a lot of merit, suddenly, and he tugged at the top strap of his brace in aggravation. "Gimme another minute. Hey, you okay?"

Sam laughed, throwing his head back so that it rested against the mattress. "Yeah, I'm good. There's just a lot of weird shit happening in Rattlesnake, man." His smile slowly faded as he turned to his brother, fresh concern growing on his face.

"What?" Dean asked cautiously, catching the look and preparing himself for the worst.

"Dean, we salted."

"Yeah, like always. So?"

"So if Delilah Reardon showed up in our room and tried to kill you, just how did she get in?"

-:- -:- -:-

_TBC. Thanks for reading! Comments are welcomed._


	5. Chapter 5

_You have been so incredibly generous in your interest so far! I'm very grateful!_

_I did the best I could formatting the epitaphs. Please try to imagine them side by side...._

_And may I just say thank you, Kim Manners, for everything. You'll be missed._

**Rush**

**Chapter Five**

Neither of the Winchesters slept well, so it was only 7:30 when they ordered breakfast from a pleasant, blowsy, middle-aged woman in a gingham dress at the Scotchbroom Café, and just past 8:00 by the time they finished.

There had been no further signs of Dean's mystery woman from the previous night--no indications of spirit activity from the EMF meter, no way for Delilah Reardon to have gotten into the suite over the salt they'd laid so carefully. As for the little footprint outside the door, Sam had been unimpressed.

_"I don't know, Dean," he'd said skeptically, staring down at the marks on the pollen-covered floor. "Could be matrixing. You been seeing Jesus in any tortillas or tree-bark lately?"_

_Dean had scowled at him darkly, presented his middle finger in front of Sam's nose, and gone into the bathroom for a long shower._

Privately, Sam was pretty convinced that his brother's experience the night before had been inspired by the oxycodone he'd taken for his knee. Dean, however, was holding his ground that he had, in fact, encountered the spirit of Delilah Reardon. Up close and personal, by way of a knife-blade.

_"I know a ghost when I see one, Sam," he'd growled, although Sam thought that, for just a moment, there had been doubt in his eyes._

The knot on Sam's head from shovel-connecting-to-hardhat was painful to the touch, and except for constantly rearranging his shaggy hair to make sure it was covered, Sam took care not to mess with it any more. His arm bore bruises dark as eggplants and hurt like hell, but it wasn't going to kill him. The long scrapes on his torso were just par for the course, as was the mark on his cheek and the split lip. They'd heal quickly, and were barely worth noticing. The waitress hadn't even raised an eyebrow.

Dean was a little grumpy, and Sam figured his knee was aching, but the older man stubbornly refused to take any more painkillers for it, choosing instead to shoot sporadic death-glares at the brace on his leg.

"Your choice," Sam allowed generously, adding fresh batteries to the EMF meter, "but after we hit the cemeteries, you're still doing the research. I've got to meet Steve and the state mine inspector at ten."

He'd expected to hear Dean grouse, but his brother was staring fixedly out the cafe window at something in the street, fork in one hand, last bite of toast in the other.

"You _see_ her, right?" Dean asked intensely.

Sam turned, immediately spotting a pretty Asian girl about his age walking along the opposite sidewalk. She was kind of hard to miss, dressed in colorful silk of black and pink, embroidered with a multitude of designs; a conical hat atop her head and tied under her chin—probably a historical re-enactor of some kind, he guessed.

_Oh, the opportunity was _way _too good to pass up._

"See who?" Sam asked blandly, turning an inquisitive face to his brother. "That old woman?"

Dean looked at him askance, a frown line between his eyes deepening.

"You just saw an old woman," he said.

Fighting to keep the grin from his face, Sam shrugged and raised his coffee mug, taking a hefty sip. "Yeah. So?"

"Across the street."

"Yeah, Dean—what's the big deal about an old woman?"

The girl had moved far enough along the sidewalk that she was beyond Dean's peripheral vision and well into Sam's line of sight. Her costume was bright, and Sam could track her easily without his eyes ever leaving his brother's face.

Dean's scowl grew, and he was just about to twist around and look again when Sam leaned across the table suddenly, wearing his own frown.

"Dean," he said with feigned concern, capturing his brother's gaze, "you didn't take those horse tranquilizers by accident, did you? Man, we've got work to do, and if you're going to be hallucinating for the next three hours—"

The pink and black vanished abruptly as the girl stepped into the post office, closing the wooden door behind her.

"I'm not hallucinating, Sam!" Dean plunked his elbows on the table and canted around to get a better look over his shoulder and out the window.

The sidewalk was empty, and Dean twisted frontward again in his seat, flummoxed. Sam watched the wheels turn as his brother chewed briefly on his lower lip, then shook his head.

"No, Sam. You can't tell me you didn't just see this gorgeous Chinese chick in some kind of shiny pink outfit across the street on that sidewalk, right there."

A paragon of innocence, Sam looked again. "No. Now I don't even see the old lady. Dean, man, maybe you'd better get some rest—you sure you even want to go out to the cemeteries with me? You can stay at the hotel, you know."

He almost regretted the trick, the look on Dean's face was so crestfallen. Still, the fact of it was that Dean's bum knee was far from healed, and they had yet to identify the spirit haunting the North Cedar Mine.

"Let's go," the older man grumbled, rising awkwardly from the booth and reaching for his wallet.

In moments they were in the car and headed out of town on Eureka Street, the sidewalk still empty, not even a tourist in sight.

-:- -:- -:-

The Founders Cemetery was well off anything resembling a main road, but Sam insisted on driving along the narrow, rutted dirt track, barely wide enough for the Impala to pass.

In the back, Dean sat ramrod straight with his teeth clenched as he kept a worried eye on the encroaching manzanita and toyon bushes, one hand gripping the front seat behind Sam's left shoulder.

"If you scratch my paint—"

"The graveyard's half a mile in, Dean," Sam replied calmly. "You're not walking."

But he offered up a silent prayer of thanks when they reached their destination with the car unscathed.

Since 1903, Rattlesnake's dead had been buried in the 'new' cemetery off Flood Street, out on the east side of town. The brothers had checked that one right after breakfast, finding nothing out of the ordinary, raising not even a blip on the EMF meter.

But Founders was the town's _first_ cemetery, the oldest one, and when Dean had commented that it seemed pretty far removed, Sam had reminded him that Rattlesnake's heyday had made it a much larger place. That time was long past, however, and what once had been a giant mining camp had diminished substantially.

There was a fence of sorts around the graveyard, although in places it leaned precariously against boulders or bushes or trees and didn't really seem designed to keep anyone out in the first place. The lock on the gate was open, chains dangling uselessly, and the brothers entered without effort.

Dean snorted. "They should all be this easy," he said, snapping his fingers and holding out his hand. Sam passed him the EMF meter without a word.

It was quiet, so far off the road, the only sounds the wind overhead and a woodpecker, somewhere, hammering away. Little brown and gray birds rustling in the scrub; the soft noise of the brothers passing over pine-straw and grass dusted with pollen as they wandered through the vague rows of the dead.

It looked like any number of other old bone-yards they'd seen, graves scattered across the landscape in more or less tidy lines, overgrown, their markers missing or buried in weeds. Many of the headstones were toppled or broken or completely illegible, the etching upon them erased by a century's worth of wind and rain and snow. Still, it was quite clear where the Hartsons and Markhams were buried, ornate marble monuments atop their resting places surrounded by rusted iron spikes like defending armies of lancers. Metal tags had been welded to the gate-posts: "Maintained by the Rattlesnake Historical Society."

Sam stopped in the middle of the cemetery, turning, searching fruitlessly, his arms outspread. "No giant tomb for the twenty-three dead of the North Cedar," he commented wryly. "Why don't you check out the turtle dove grave—I'll look for miners."

There were actually quite a few large markers in the cemetery, half a dozen or so besides the two for the Hartsons and the Markhams. Most were of white marble or granite, obelisks and angels popular themes—_Maddux_, _Kaheny_, _Shively_, _Clancy_, _Billings_. Movers and shakers in a town that had once boasted over ten thousand residents, now shrunk to twelve hundred, isolated and almost forgotten on a winding mountain road.

Dean held the EMF meter in front of him as he limped across the uneven ground to the Markham plot; gave the equipment a hard shot to the side that elicited a single burst of noise and light before the meter fell silent again. He glared at it to no avail, then put his hands in his jacket pockets, examining the headstone before him.

He recognized it from his computer research, of course: a substantial marble slab, the single stone designed for both JT and Agnes, mourning angels on either side and a pollen-coated cloud of roses cut into the top. Two birds nested amidst the roses, facing the center from left and right, their beaks touching, their wings stretched out behind them. Dean guessed they were supposed to look like they were striving to be together, but to a perverse part of him they seemed antagonistic, their crossed bills like crossed swords.

Agnes had been a little younger than JT, and had outlived her husband by a long shot, according to the dates on the marker. The epitaphs were sappy, even by Victorian standards, but Dean could see why people interested in that type of art might photograph the headstone. For one thing, it was still pretty easy to read.

_JAMES THADDEUS MARKHAM / AGNES JENNINGS MARKHAM_

_1813 – 1854 / 1818 - 1887_

"_His wife's forever love" / "Her husband's turtle dove"_

_Sped on too hast'ly to his death / More loving wife he never knew_

_Entombed is he below / Devoted so was she_

_Claiming love with his last breath / Her heart and soul were faithful, true_

_May Heavenward he go / And always so shall be_

Beyond the trite poetry, nowhere was there any indication that JT had died viciously at the hands of another, nor that Agnes had spent long, lonely years after his passing. But how could you sum up someone's life in just a few etched words?

After their dad had passed (_flames rising into the black night, his little brother teary-eyed beside him and Dean struggling to just keep it together as he watched his hero's body burn_), Sam had insisted on going back to Lawrence and visiting their mother's grave. Dean had balked, knowing the casket was empty, Mary Winchester's body consumed by the fire that had claimed her, but Sam had dug in his heels. He'd wanted to leave their dad's dog-tags there, and when Dean had finally given in—_easier just to do it than to face Sammy's certain, caustic analysis of why he didn't want to_—Sam never questioned how it was that his brother had known exactly where to go.

Their mother's marker was simple red granite, barely adorned, erected by an uncle neither Sam nor Dean had ever met, "In loving memory" the only sentiment.

There'd be no marker for their dad, Dean reflected; probably not one for him, either, when he was gone. Or Sam. Their kind of legacy wasn't exactly tombstone material, for all that John Winchester was a hero, and maybe the same might be said of him and Sam. Maybe, if sacrificing everything to try to help others made you a hero, but he guessed it really didn't. Mostly it just made you old and tired and alone, destined for an early grave.

Dean sniffed, running a hand across his mouth absently. Didn't matter much, he thought, hero or not. After a certain point, dead was just dead.

He looked around for Sam, spotting his brother on the opposite side of the graveyard, peering through the fence curiously.

"What?" Dean called.

Sam turned instantly. "I think it's where they buried the Chinese miners," he said, making his way to his brother's side. "There are only a few markers, but the writing looks like it might be Chinese. I'm not surprised they were segregated; that happened a lot in the old mining camps. Hey. You okay?"

Dean's lips tightened, and he shot Sam a dark, warning look.

"Okay, okay," Sam said in a tone barely this side of impatient, casting a glance at the Markhams' grave and taking a quick picture of it with his cell phone. "You just look a little strung out, is all. You get any EMF?"

"No."

"Maybe try by the Hartsons. I'm going to write down some of these names, see if we can't find out anything more about the people buried here."

Sam's long legs carried him off quickly, and Dean turned to go, heading for the Hartson tomb when his eye was caught by the little grave just outside the Markham plot. Fist-sized rocks surrounded it, mossy and half-buried in old pine-straw and spring grass, the broken rectangle they made no more than three feet long. The headstone had been snapped off—probably decades ago—and lay in pieces on the ground, so there was no way of identifying who was buried beneath. Still, it was obviously a child's grave.

Dean paused another moment, rubbing the toe of his boot absently over one of the rocks.

"Sorry, kid," he murmured, and then moved on.

-:- -:- -:-

Forty minutes later, they still had no clue who might be causing trouble at the North Cedar Mine, although Sam had written down the name inscribed on every legible tombstone for later research.

"There's a hundred names on this list," Dean groused as they got into the Impala and started back toward town, "and I'll bet you anything finding out what killed these guys is going to be a bitch. How come they don't put _that_ on tombstones, huh? You know, like, 'James Markham, stabbed to death by crazy hooker' or 'Milford Peters, crushed by falling rock in the North Cedar Mine'? That'd be a helluva lot more helpf—Jesus, Sam!" His voice rose suddenly, and Sam stomped on the brake.

"What?!" Adrenaline raced through him, tingling in his hands, and Sam let his gaze fly right and left, up, down and back, seeking the threat but finding nothing.

"Did you freakin' see that branch? I swear to God, dude, if you hurt my baby—"

"Oh, my God, Dean—cut it out! Close your eyes if this is bothering you so much!"

The older man clammed up abruptly, but Sam couldn't help but notice that his brother's fingers still held the front seat-back in a death grip, and his own knuckles had turned white around the steering wheel. They both breathed audible sighs of relief when the Impala emerged onto the paved roadway without a scratch.

"County courthouse is thirty miles away," Sam commented as they crested the rise onto South Cedar Road, "but maybe the Rattlesnake Historical Society has copies of the death records. Didn't Melanie Markham say that somebody at the museum knows all the town history?"

"Oh, so you're up at the mine and I'm spending the afternoon at a friggin' museum. That'll be just great." Dean's tone belied his words as he fidgeted idly, first with the Velcro strap across his thigh, then with the locking mechanism at the side of his knee. "What're you carryin' for protection?"

Sam shrugged. "The usual. Salt-gun, some iron rounds and holy water."

"You want the EMF back?"

"No. We know something's there."

"Okay, well—" Dean chewed his lower lip momentarily, then rubbed a hand across the stubble on his jaw. "Dammit, Sammy, I don't like the idea of you bein' alone down in that mine shaft, not after what happened yesterday."

"I think we're only going to the Thirty-Six," Sam offered, his voice soothing. "I get you're worried, man, but the problem's at the Forty-Eight. And I _have_ to go, Dean; I need to draw some wards in the upper drift before the state inspector gets there, see if I can't at least keep that mule from showing up again. You just figure out who Casper is, so we can take care of the bones and don't have to worry about it any more."

They turned back onto Eureka Street, and Sam pulled up in front of The Baron, idling at the curb, frowning when Dean made absolutely no move to get out of the car.

"Dean, I gotta go," Sam said impatiently.

His brother thumped the seat by Sam's shoulder, catching his eyes in the rear-view mirror, grin a little sheepish but the concern evident in the tight lines around his mouth.

"Hey, know what? My knee's feelin' a lot better today."

Sam laughed, patting the air with a hand. "No, Dean. Just—thanks, but no. And I'm glad your knee's better. Look, check out those names we pulled off the gravestones and see what connections they might have had to the Hartsons or the North Cedar. Listen, I might not make it back for lunch, okay? I don't know how long this inspection is going to take."

"Yeah, yeah."

Dean nodded unhappily, opening the door with a shriek and maneuvering himself out of the car. Then he knocked a fist against the roof, leaning down to point a commanding finger at his little brother.

"You be careful, you hear me?" he admonished, and Sam quirked a patent smile.

"I will. You, too, man."

With that, he put the car into gear, Dean shutting the door firmly and stepping stiff-legged up onto the sidewalk. Sam waved briefly and turned the Impala in the direction of the North Cedar Mine.

-:- -:- -:-

He was stalling, he knew, but before heading down to the local museum to see what he might learn there, Dean opted for some additional recon along Eureka Street. It never hurt to know where things were and what might be going on, and in a town this old, surely there had to be ghosts.

But after an initial, low-level squeal, the EMF meter had been silent as he hobbled east along the boarded sidewalk, ignoring the curious or sympathetic looks of passersby when they noticed the brace on his leg. By the time he reached the end of the major commercial zone, Dean had decided that the batteries in the detector were bad, and he leaned back against the brick wall of the real estate office to change them.

His knee was holding up fairly well, although he'd only come a few blocks past Yankee Street; still, he'd worked up a sweat, and found himself thinking about stopping in at the bar back up Eureka on the other side for a quick drink, even if it was only mid-morning. Place was right next door to the museum, anyway, and bartenders always knew the best stories....

Coming east, he'd already passed the drugstore, the café, a market, several kitschy tourist shops and an art gallery. Directly across from where he stood was the post office, adjacent to the firehouse and a small bank. Parking was parallel and plentiful, and traffic was light, apparently an even mix of locals and tourists enjoying a bright spring day.

Dean shoved off the brick office building and made his way across the street, heading west back toward the hotel, the EMF meter squalling weakly once again. It fell silent before he'd even gone a block.

"Huh."

He looked behind him with a frown, checking for electrical boxes or power lines and finding none nearby that might have caused a signal as he passed. He gave the piece of equipment in his hand a frustrated shake before pulling the last of the replacement batteries from his jeans pocket, loading them as he continued up the sidewalk. As soon as he'd stuffed the new double-As into the modified Walkman, it let out a single ear-piercing blurt and died completely.

"That's some ringtone," a feminine voice said with humor.

Startled, Dean looked up and found himself face to face with the Chinese girl he'd seen before, standing on the sidewalk in her embroidered silk pajamas and coolie hat. This time, Dean was pretty sure she was real.

"Oh, hey," he said, realizing with some embarrassment that he'd nearly walked right into her. "Sorry. I was just, uh—" he gave her a shrug and a medium-watt smile, getting his verbal feet back under him. "Wasn't watching where I was going."

The girl smiled back at him and glanced down curiously as he swatted the meter against the heel of his hand. It wailed plaintively for just a moment before falling silent again.

_Okay, then. Town apparently not haunted. _

Ever the professional, Dean congratulated himself on finishing the business at hand before turning to other matters. He switched off the meter and upped the wattage on his grin, giving his undivided attention to the prettiest matter he'd seen in quite some time.

"May I ask?" the girl said politely. "What is that thing?"

"It's a, uh, radon detector," he improvised without thinking, not exactly certain where he'd found the word 'radon' in his vocabulary. "I'm checking radon levels in town. Work for Air Quality Control down in Sacto, and we're just running some tests—"

"Radon?" She seemed startled. "That's pretty serious!"

"I know," Dean acknowledged solemnly. He had absolutely no idea what radon was but adopted an expression of concern anyway, since her reaction seemed to warrant it. "You heard the alarm—must be pretty high levels of it out here, to make the detector sing like that. Maybe we should go inside until it, uh, evaporates."

The building beside them was clearly a historical landmark of some kind, although Dean wasn't sure what its function might have been—maybe an assayer's office, or a jail or something. Made of rough stone and mortar, the single-story rectangular structure looked pretty much like plenty of other Gold Rush-era buildings Dean had seen, even though this one had a vaguely Oriental feel to it, somehow. Probably because of the way the solid iron door that shuttered the entrance had been painted, he realized—sporadic black horizontal lines across pale green—or because of the delicate scrollwork etched into the stylized padlock.

_Or maybe because of the chick standing with him in front of it, dressed in her pink Chinese get-up with her long black hair...._

There was a metal plaque affixed to the stone that undoubtedly described the building's historical significance, but Dean was far more interested in the girl than in some architectural relic from Rattlesnake's past. He was pretty sure they could find a more comfortable place to seek shelter, whether or not they really needed it. The bar, for example.

He took her elbow, steering her down the sidewalk while she anxiously fanned the air around her face as though to dispel a bad aroma.

"If the radon's that high, we could be in real trouble!" she said with dismay. "I've heard that people who breathe too much of it can actually start lying outrageously to total strangers!"

Dean stopped short, although they'd only gone a few feet.

_Damn! Busted._

Laughter in her eyes, the girl was clearly amused and waiting for an explanation, but hell if he could think of one that wasn't at least partly true. Dean took one more look at the EMF meter before realizing he'd already turned it off, and stuffed it into a pocket.

"Sorry," he said, chagrined. "I don't even know why I said that. I'm Dean, by the way. And I'm really with the Weather Service, here to get some readings on the pollen level."

She nodded, accepting the apology with good humor and apparently buying his fresh line of bullshit completely.

"Now that makes more sense—can you believe how thick it is this year? Look at it—even the street is yellow! Nice to meet you, Dean. I'm Grace."

"Hey, Grace. So, what _is_ radon, anyhow?" he asked, grin still sheepish.

She had a nice laugh, and a pretty mouth, her teeth white and even. Pretty eyes, too, but that hair—oh, Dean was already thinking about his hands in that spill of jet-black hair.

"It's a gas, and it can kill you," Grace informed him almost cheerfully. "Everyone who lives in a mining town knows about radon, and if we were down in one of the shafts at the North Cedar, I might have believed you. Radon mostly causes problems indoors, and it's heavy—in mines, it sinks to lower levels, and because of the granite, it can't dissipate. So in some circumstances it's really quite dangerous, but out in the open like this, it's not really much of a problem."

In a way, she made him think of Sam, minus the brainier-than-thou vibe. Even without meaning to, Sammy had a knack for reminding Dean that the intellect in the Winchester family had gone to the younger son, but with this chick, somehow, Dean didn't feel all that ignorant.

"Dissipate, right. Maybe I was just being thorough?" he asked, using his most charming smile this time, and they both laughed. "No, I was trying to impress a pretty girl."

She placed a genial hand on his arm, looking up at him with clear, dark eyes.

"You did."

They were still standing in the middle of the sidewalk, oblivious to foot-traffic around them, and it was one of those moments, stretching a little longer than usual, when nobody said anything. Then Dean blinked when a woman's voice cut into their reverie.

"Oh, sweetie, I'm so glad you're still here! Something went wrong with the photo—would you mind taking another?"

A tourist couple were walking toward them, dressed in the requisite tourist clothing, even though it was only early May. He was a little too heavy for the shorts he was wearing, and she had the beginnings of a painful sunburn on her bare shoulders.

"Show them, George."

Without waiting, the woman took the digital camera from her husband's hand and showed them the photo. In it, she and Grace were standing side by side in front of the stone building's Asian-looking door, smiling brightly into the camera, and Dean thought Grace looked beautiful. The picture was ruined, however; a filmy white blur all but obliterated the woman standing beside her.

Dean immediately recognized the blur for what it was.

"Huh."

"Of course I'll take another," Grace said generously, turning to usher them all back down the sidewalk to the historic landmark.

"Think I'll be in it, too, this time," George said, puffing a little as they walked. "What about it, buddy? You'll take a picture of us with your girlfriend, right?"

Grace raised a startled face, and their eyes caught again.

"Oh, he's not--" She started to make the correction, but Dean interrupted her with a grin.

"Sure. Be glad to."

The photo session was quick and successful, Grace naturally photogenic, and the tourists went away pleased.

"Chalk up two more happy customers for the Chamber of Commerce," the girl said with a satisfied nod. "Thanks, boyfriend."

"That kind of thing happen a lot?" Dean asked, and Grace cocked her head at him, puzzled.

"People taking my picture?"

Dean chuckled. "I'm sure_ that_ happens all the time. No, I meant that blur in the photo—you didn't seem real surprised. I was just curious about what might have caused it."

All trace of satisfaction vanished as Grace put her hands into the sleeves of her pink silk jacket and shrugged. "Some people think it's a ghost," she said simply, looking elsewhere for a moment.

Dean let his eyes widen slightly, although he'd half expected the answer. "Come again?"

"There are a lot of people in town who think Rattlesnake is haunted—this building in particular—and that that filmy thing in the photo is one of the ghosts. Actually, it does kind of happen a lot, people getting pictures like that. Some of them are thrilled."

"Well, what about you? Do _you _think it was a ghost?"

She shrugged again, this time looking up at him. "I've never seen such a thing, Dean, but stuff happens around town that I can't explain, and people I know and love swear they've seen _some_thing that isn't real. Plus, because of my culture, I'd be hypocritical if I said I didn't believe in spirits."

"Why's that?" Dean asked, wondering only after the words were out whether it was appropriate for him to be asking. She was—what? Buddhist, maybe Taoist? Confucianist? Hell, maybe she was Baptist, for all he knew.

He felt his face grow warm. "I mean, I've heard of the Ghost Festival, of course. Isn't that kind of like the Chinese version of Halloween?"

"Let me show you," she replied, clearly unoffended.

They were still standing outside the stone landmark, and now Grace withdrew a set of keys from a pocket hidden deep in her black silk pants, using one to unlock the painted-iron door. It opened with a squeal, and she gestured for Dean to accompany her inside.

"I'm the curator for the Historical Society museum next door—explains what I'm wearing, right? Anyway, I also have responsibility for oversight of this building, although technically it belongs to the state," she said, turning on the lights.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust from the bright daylight outside, but when they did, Dean could see that he and Grace were in a sort of vestibule, separating the front door from the main room with a waist-high wall of untreated wood, grayed with age. Chicken-wire extended to the ceiling, creating something of a barrier while allowing easy viewing of the building's interior.

There was a locked door of meshed metal in the center of the wood-and-wire wall, which Grace moved to open, and just inside to left and right were two small tables, plainly visible through the chicken-wire. On the tables, laminated posterboard placards sat atop little display stands, no doubt explaining the building's use and history.

Dean didn't care about the history, but one good look into the interior and he had no question about the building's purpose.

"Welcome to the Rattlesnake Joss House, Dean," Grace told him as he stepped into the main room.

He had never been inside a Chinese temple before, and Dean let his eyes rove, intrigued by what he saw. The room was quiet and cool, mostly bare except for some wall hangings and paper lanterns scattered haphazardly throughout. At the far side, however, across the worn plank floor, an elaborate teak altar extended along the entire back wall, intricately carved. Everywhere, the tiny figures of people, animals, flowers and birds amidst other Chinese characters and designs had been cut out of the dark, polished wood until it looked like Oriental lace filigree. On the altar were a variety of statues and incense burners, bottles of beer, plates of what looked like plastic fruit, and tiny lacquer bowls in a bright array of colors. The smell of sandalwood was strong.

Grace's voice dropped to a reverent whisper. "The interior is not the original, of course, because the town has had several major fires in its history. But this is a close replica, and still serves its first purpose as a place of worship. There, at the altar, you can see where my family and other local Chinese pay honor to our ancestors. As is our duty, we light incense, and burn or leave small gifts for those who have gone before us."

"Why?" Dean asked again, approaching the altar to examine the beautiful carved figures.

"For their continued well-being," Grace explained. "Many Chinese believe that even after we die, we continue to exist. The dead remain interested in what happens in the world, and sometimes watch out for those who are still alive. Some even believe that the dead can bring good luck to the living, if we deserve it and honor them appropriately."

He felt a twinge inside, then, remembering his dad, wondering if John Winchester would feel that his sons honored him, respected him after he'd gone. His whole life, Dean had followed his dad unfailingly, always obedient, never questioning. In fact, until recently and on plenty more than one occasion, Sam had accused Dean of practically worshipping their father; Dean hadn't honestly been able to say much by way of argument.

But then their dad had died, in a manner that called into question everything Dean had thought the man stood for. He'd dealt with the demon, and laid Sam's future squarely in Dean's hands once again, telling his oldest boy that his youngest might have to die at those hands. After all that, Dean wasn't sure what to think any more.

It would have been nice to believe that their dad was with their mom again, both of them happy, looking out for their sons from the afterlife. But Dean knew without doubt that John was in Hell, consigned to the flames when he'd traded his own life for Dean's.

As for their mom? They'd never really talked about it, Pastor Jim's catechisms aside—just accepted that nobody knew what happened after you died, except that sometimes you stuck around when you shouldn't, and if you didn't move on, you were just asking to be salted and burned.

His lip twitched.

_What do you want on your altar, Dad?_ he thought. _What'll it take for you to bring us good luck? Bottle of tequila? Clip-load of silver bullets? Your sons' undying devotion, even after everything that's happened, everything you did? _

Dean cleared his throat, bringing himself back to the present.

"So, people think there's a ghost here?" he said, voice a little rough, stuffing his hands in his pockets to surreptitiously turn on the EMF meter again. He was pretty sure he'd hear it, however muffled, if any spirits were present—always had in the past—but the meter remained silent. "Any idea who it is?"

The girl nodded, still whispering. "There are several possibilities, not all of them Chinese. Some people say they have seen a misty figure hovering near the prayer table at the altar. Others see figures like the one in that couple's photo, right outside the joss house. I've heard different people say that a dark presence inhabits the basement, and almost everyone agrees they hear noises—sometimes chanting, sometimes laughing, sometimes singing."

Dean drew his brows together and turned a three-sixty.

_No doors except the front one, and the one in the vestibule._

"Basement?" he said, and Grace grinned cheekily, twinkling again.

"Ah, those inscrutable Chinese!" she said, drawing Dean with her as she walked toward one side of the altar.

It wasn't until she put her hand out to reach for the knob that he saw how cleverly the basement entry had been built into the altar's design. The intricate patterns and carvings made the door all but invisible.

"Awesome," Dean said, as she opened it toward them, revealing a landing with a series of a dozen or so narrow wooden steps leading down into the dark cellar.

"Awesome," he said again, with a decidedly different tone, having learned through recent experience that stairs and knee-braces weren't very compatible.

Grace seemed suddenly embarrassed, almost flustered, although she kept her eyes stoically on his face rather than dropping them to his knee. "Oh, Dean, please excuse my bad manners! We don't have to go down—aren't even supposed to, really. It's just a basement, mostly empty except for a bunch of boxes."

"No, it's okay," he replied. "I'd like to take a quick look, if it's all right."

They moved together through the door and onto the landing. It was a close fit, and Dean found himself more interested in the feel of Grace's body against his than in what he could see of the little room at the foot of the stairway.

"What was it used for?" he asked, inhaling the scent of her shampoo—or maybe just more sandalwood from the altar, he really couldn't tell.

She craned her head to look up at him, smiling. "Like all basements, storage...although in Rattlesnake's early days, it was the opium den of Quon-Jin Chin."

"That seems a little unusual, for a house of worship," he commented, eyebrows rising.

There was an electrical switch beside the door, but the light was off and the basement gloomy, morning sun from an open window in the main room filtering just beyond the base of the wooden stairs and no farther. Dean noted that pollen had pervaded even this sanctuary, dusting the upper steps a faint yellow, but then his superficial observation sharpened as he spotted the little shoe-print on the third riser.

Someone small had headed downstairs, and if the matching print on the fifth riser was any indication, that same small someone had headed back up again.

"Who goes down there, Grace?" he asked casually. Her own feet weren't big by any means, but maybe not _that_ size. "School-kids? Your little brother or sister?"

She gave him a funny look. "No kids at all," she told him. "The school tours keep away from the altar, and I don't have any siblings. The basement's not locked, but the joss house is. I have the only keys—if anyone wants to get inside, they have to see me, and the building's unavailable except during museum hours. Why do you ask?"

He flashed her a disarming smile and changed the subject, directing her back out into the temple and waving a hand at the altar. "This thing is really something. So you're an only child, huh? Well, I got a hulking giant of a little brother wandering around town, somewhere…he's really got to see this."

As he reached back to close the basement door, Dean thought he felt a brief gust of cold air come up the stairs, but with the EMF meter in his pocket stubbornly silent, he chalked it up to his imagination.

-:- -:- -:-

When Sam pulled into the gravel yard of the North Cedar Mine, he saw Steve Hartson standing beside a white GMC Yukon with government plates, chatting with the young woman in the driver's seat. Apparently, the state inspector had arrived a little early.

They both turned to watch as he parked the Impala in front of the office, and by the time Sam had killed the engine and gotten out of the car, Steve was helping the inspector out, too.

She wasn't anything at all like what Sam had been expecting—about his age, trim and pretty, with ash-brown hair reaching her shoulders. He liked what he saw.

"Hey, cousin," Steve greeted him, a big, fake smile on his face and more than a touch of nerves in his voice. "Right on time!"

As always—well, almost always—Sam's own smile was warm and genuine as he put out a hand to the girl.

"Hi, I'm—"

"Sam," she said, taking his hand and shaking it firmly. "Right? Sam…something with a 'W.' Winston?"

_Oh, shit._

His smile faltered, and Sam looked quickly at Steve, who appeared to be as startled as Sam felt.

"I'm sorry," Sam said to the girl, avoiding the issue of his last name. "Have we--? Do I--?"

She laughed, reddening slightly and finally withdrawing from Sam's grip. "You never recognized me on campus, so why would now be any different? Erica Holbrook. We took 'Politics of Geology' together sophomore year."

Sam was still drawing a blank, unable to place her face although he remembered Dr. Fontana's class very well. He'd taken it autumn quarter of his second year at Stanford, almost missing a critical midterm, in fact, because that had been the last time Dean had swung by--

_What's dead should stay dead_, Sam told himself firmly, knowing the phrase fit more than one chapter of the Winchesters' lives.

"Wow," he said aloud. "Erica. You're right, I didn't recognize you. Sorry."

"It's all right. I've always had a good memory for names. First ones, anyway."

Sam regained his smile, scratching at the back of his head in a gesture of rueful embarrassment. "So, you've pretty much made a career out of that class, then."

Erica chuckled again. "Well, I'm not in Riyadh working for the State Department, yet, but I will be someday. Right now, I'm doing mine inspections for the experience, and to sock a little money away for grad school. You know, I still speak with Dr. Fontana pretty regularly—in fact, last time I saw him, he asked about you."

"What?" Sam couldn't imagine any good reason for his old professor to be curious about him, but he needn't have been concerned.

"Just wondered if I knew what had happened to you," Erica told him. "You were kind of a stand-out student, after all, Sam. I'll bet lots of your profs remember you."

"Oh, uh…please, give him my regards and tell him I'm doing well. I enjoyed that class very much."

It was kind of weird, running into someone from school. Sam's life at Stanford sometimes seemed unreal to him now, everything about it a vague memory. Everything except for Jessica—there were times, still, in his dreams, when Jess was alive and they were happy and all was somehow right in his world; other times when the nightmare of her death swept out of nowhere like a horrific tidal wave, the juggernaut of fresh agony all but flattening him, leaving him gasping and lost.

But the rest of that Joe College life mostly seemed as though it belonged to somebody else, to someone who was not Sam Winchester but a facsimile of him—someone who had worn his clothes and his hair and his smile, but who was just an insubstantial, cardboard copy of the real McCoy.

That is, until he heard from one of the old gang, or ran across a Cardinal game on ESPN, or even simply bumped into a classmate he didn't recognize. Then, with startling suddenness, Sam could once again be the young man who'd gone to school to make a life for himself, preparing for a real career and an ordinary family and an honest-to-God future. Could almost be like a normal person, who laughed readily and made friends easily; who slept soundly, not even imagining that ghosts and demons might lurk in the darkness.

At times like those, some door inside him opened up, allowing Sam to see into a world of possibilities his brother would never know. And God help him, there were still times he wanted nothing more than to escape through that door, to leave hunting far, far behind.

_If only it didn't mean leaving Dean, too…._

Now, with Erica smiling expectantly up at him and almost without realizing that he had done so, Sam slid easily into his former self.

"So, Erica," he said with a grin, "before you leave for Riyadh, what's the plan here?"

"Initially? Lots of bureaucracy; I've brought a ton of paperwork with me, and a bunch of equipment for taking various measurements. On this first visit, I'm kind of like a property inspector—I'll be looking at all sorts of different things in the mine. Based on what I see, we take it from there. Are you coming with us?"

Sam made eye contact with Steve, who was still having trouble hiding his nerves, and the mine-owner nodded vigorously.

"If he could, that'd be great."

"Learning the business from the ground down, right?"

Erica's casual joke bombed, Steve too freaked to even notice it, and Sam shrugged an apology.

"Sorry," the inspector said, ducking her head a little and smiling wryly. "I couldn't resist. Sure, we can all go together. Let's get started, shall we?"

Sam led the way.

-:- -:- -:-

_TBC. _

_Thank you so much for making it this far! __Comments are welcomed._


	6. Chapter 6

_Have I thanked you recently for reading this story? I certainly haven't thanked you enough, particularly you wonderful, generous, stalwart ones who are taking the time to provide feedback, or who are adding "Rush" to your alerts or favs. I really appreciate it._

_Have you been wondering when the little murdered girl might show up?_

**Rush**

**Chapter Six**

-:- -:- -:-

Erica sat between them in the man-skip, Steve at the front and Sam at the rear. There was a loud clang as Steve threw the switch that set the hoist in motion, the skip lurching at the start of its descent, and Erica fell back against Sam with a surprised laugh, knocking her safety helmet askew.

"Sorry!" she said, looking up at him over her shoulder.

Sam scooted forward a little, his hands on her upper arms to help brace her.

"That better?" he asked over the clatter of the iron wheels on the track, and she smiled at him again.

"Much."

-:- -:- -:-

Once they entered the main drift at the Thirty-Six and Steve had the carbon lights on, generator growling noisily, Erica immediately began taking notes of everything she saw. The worried mine-owner grabbed Sam by the elbow, pulling him to one side.

"Is there any sign of—you know, that thing?" he asked, anxiety growing in his voice.

Sam used his best calming tone. "You said yourself that almost nothing happens at this level, so try not to worry."

But he kept a sharp eye out, anyway, surreptitiously sniffing the air from time to time for any scent of the ghost mule's return. All his other senses were alert for signs of the phantom miner.

Erica went earnestly about her business, poking into every cranny of the drift. She was quick and efficient, and not much escaped her, although Sam was able to hastily sketch several wards across rough granite in places he hoped the inspector would not find them. Hex signs meant to fend off the supernatural might be a little hard to explain.

More than once, when he wasn't surreptitiously drawing or on the lookout for ghosts, Sam caught himself just watching Erica.

"This the tunnel to the lower passages?" she asked Steve, peering into the darkness that led down to the Forty-Eight.

"I won't be using that," Steve said immediately, "so it'll be blocked off. No need for any of us to go down there today."

The two spent some time discussing how best to keep careless and curious tourists from wandering where they didn't belong, the constant scratch of Erica's pen as she jotted down her observations amazingly loud, despite the noise of the generator.

Steve craned his neck to read what she was writing, and Sam grinned when she turned away so the mine-owner couldn't see.

"You'll get a full report, Mr. Hartson, I promise," she said drolly.

Sam was relieved, though, when Erica and Steve finally moved away from the lower tunnel, walking slowly through the drift back toward the upper tunnel, talking barricades and safety rails and reflective paint. For a moment, the young hunter paused, listening to their conversation with one ear, the other tuned to any sound from the Forty-Eight.

But no stone rattled, no whisper taunted him, and after a few moments he rejoined Steve and Erica, now chatting busily about air recirculation.

"All right," his ex-classmate said finally, closing her notebook. "I think I've seen enough for today. I've got a few more safety checks on my route this afternoon, while I'm up here, but then I'll head back to the office and write up my initial report. I think you should be able to expect it by tomorrow afternoon."

Steve blinked, the anxiety falling visibly from his shoulders. "So soon? Wow, that's fast. The guy I talked to earlier from your office said six weeks."

Erica's eyes danced to Sam's for a moment. "You're going to be here, right?" she asked him.

Sam nodded, smile widening, and Erica also nodded, obviously pleased. "Good. Then I'll make an extra effort to expedite things. So, can we get back to daylight, gentlemen? I've got lots to do."

He heard it faintly, then—a thin wail, plaintive and tormented, rising from the lower drift and raising the hairs on his forearms. Sam's lips thinned, and he gave Steve a pointed look.

"Yeah, let's get back topside," he said, eyes drilling into the mine-owner's.

"Sure," Steve agreed amiably, and Sam knew he hadn't heard whatever was crying down below.

Nor had Erica, apparently, because she was sauntering casually past the generator, giving it an easy once-over before making her way into the upper passage.

"Everybody got their headlights on?" Steve asked, his pace maddeningly slow. "Let me just get the generator off, and—"

"I'll do that, Steve," Sam said quickly, brushing past him. "Why don't you two get back to the skip and start it up, so we can _get out of here_."

He punched the last few words, and Steve suddenly caught on, turning to Sam quickly with fear blanching his face.

"Oh, God," he whispered. "Is something here?"

"It might be coming," Sam replied, keeping his voice low and even. "Distract Erica if you have to, but let's get back outside as fast as we can."

Steve already had one hand at the small of Erica's back, hurrying her along the passage as Sam shut down the generator, plunging the main drift into darkness. Then, the pace he set with his long legs moved them along even faster.

As soon as they reached the man-skip, Steve rushed to get the mine inspector settled, then reached immediately for the hoist controls.

"You comfortable up there in the back, Erica?" he asked, climbing into the vehicle in front of her, blocking her view and doing a fair job of keeping the tremor from his voice. "Sam, please hurry."

Sam waited until the others were both seated before he scrambled into the low end of the skip, facing down the shaft with his back to Steve. He quickly had the salt-gun racked where Erica couldn't see it, his eyes and ears straining for any sign that would indicate something had followed them up from the lower drift.

"Go now," he ordered crisply, and Steve released the cable mechanism.

The man-skip jerked to a start, eliciting a slight yelp from Erica at the upper end.

"Hey!" she said in mild protest. "What's the hurry?"

Sam could feel Steve shaking, sandwiched between the hunter and the inspector, which meant that Erica could probably feel him, too. She was probably also puzzled by the haste with which they'd left the Thirty-Six.

"Erica," Sam called up to her over his shoulder, his voice light but his eyes never leaving the tunnel as it deepened beneath him, "I'd be interested in seeing the other mines you're checking out today. Is that possible?"

He was a little surprised by his own boldness—the straightforward approach to women was purely Dean's forte—but he hoped the question would distract her from the bum's rush she was getting at the North Cedar.

"Lunch first?" she called back to him, and despite his concern, Sam found himself with the beginnings of another smile on his face.

The Thirty-Six sank away below them as the skip continued its climb toward daylight, and nothing stirred in the darkness.

-:- -:- -:-

There was a crap-load of weird stuff in the Rattlesnake Museum, most of it apparently from the town's early days, and a lot of it from people whose names Dean recognized. In one display case, he found horse-like wooden dentures next to a label that read "Leland Hartson"; a careworn hymnal labeled "William Clancy"; those funny little eyeglasses and a shaving brush with a label for JT Markham; hair-combs that apparently once belonged to a Katie Kaheny; and what looked like Delilah Reardon's pocket watch.

"Hey, Grace?" Dean said, peering in curiously at the photos accompanying the exhibit. "I've been in town about a day, and I already know all these names except for Katie Kaheny and this Clancy guy. Who were they?"

Grace joined him at the display, frowning briefly, then rolling her eyes with a smile. "The volunteer docents like to try to keep me amused, so sometimes they'll move the labels around on the weekend, see how many I can find during the week. Looks like they've been busy! Anyway, Bull Clancy was one of our founding fathers, I guess you could say—he discovered both the North Cedar and the Inishmurray lodes. The Inishmurray wasn't as profitable as the North Cedar, but he did all right for himself."

"I thought Steve Hartson's great-granddaddy owned the North Cedar," Dean said, eyeing an old daguerreotype of three men in what once must have passed for business suits. "That guy right there, right? Yeah, Leland Hartson."

"Mm-hmm," Grace acquiesced, and Dean tried very hard not to be distracted by the fact that her face was right next to his as they leaned over to peer into the display, her mouth so close he could kiss her with hardly any effort at all. "That's JT Markham standing next to Leland—he was the North Cedar's foreman, and the owner of The Baron Hotel. And that's Bull Clancy on JT's left."

"Easy to see where he got his nickname," Dean commented. Clancy was definitely a big man, and there was something phony about the guy's broad smile that made Dean pause until Grace brushed lightly against him and his brain plummeted southward.

"I think it was probably actually derived from 'William,'" Grace said, oblivious to the effect she was having on her visitor. "You know, 'William' became 'Bill,' and 'Bill' became 'Bull.' His appearance helped, no doubt, and there are stories about his temper, too."

Dean straightened reluctantly, knee aching dully and attention recaptured by more memorabilia and pictures in the next case. "So there's JT again," he said, pointing at two of the images. "What's he doing with Delilah Reardon?"

The woman in the daguerreotypes bore a strong resemblance to the spirit he had seen in The Baron the previous night, right before she'd plunged a knife into his chest—the one he'd finally decided was a hallucination. Seeing her in these pictures? Maybe he'd been wrong about being wrong.

"That's Delilah in that one, yes," Grace said, "but that's his wife Agnes with him in the one on the left."

"Huh. Yeah—I see the difference, now," Dean murmured, brow furrowed a moment as he considered the two images. "Guess ol' JT had a type."

He moved on to another display, this one of what could only be opium paraphernalia, and Dean raised his eyebrows at the collection of pipes, bottles and dampers amidst coins and trinkets that he guessed were Chinese. "So if Bull Clancy discovered the North Cedar, how did Leland Hartson end up with it?"

"His good luck, and Clancy's bad," Grace answered readily. "Bull discovered the ore veins at the North Cedar and the Inishmurray at just about the same time, but he could only work one of them. He was hard up for money, and the Inishmurray lode looked richest, so he sold the North Cedar to Leland Hartson for five hundred dollars cash. It was an honest deal, but Clancy came out on the short end. Hartson had to tunnel down almost a mile before he could tell for certain, but the North Cedar turned out to be much richer than the Inishmurray, and the Inishmurray had nothing but trouble in all the years they mined it."

There were more pictures mounted on the wall beside the display of opium-smoking accessories, and Dean paused again, peering closer at one print, faded with age. A crowd gathered near the base of an oak tree, faces full of frozen emotion ranging from rage to something akin to joy as they watched the figure dangling from a sturdy branch, a thick rope knotted around his neck. Someone had written a date across the bottom of the daguerreotype: May 6, 1854.

"Well, happy anniversary," Dean murmured before turning to Grace and indicating the picture with a tip of his head.

"Looks like that was an interesting neck-tie party," he said noncommittally. "This is that tree in the park, right?"

Once again, he was extremely conscious of Grace as she moved to stand beside him, static electricity between them causing her long, black hair to float out as if to attach itself to him, bringing with it the light scent of her shampoo. She smoothed it self-consciously, her eyes skittering to his as she pulled it forward over her opposite shoulder, out of the way, and Dean grinned.

There was a lot to be said for chemistry.

"Quon-Jin Chin," Grace said, tapping delicately with one finger on the image of the hanged man. "He was the most powerful Chinese in Rattlesnake—actually, in most of the Mother Lode. Some said he swindled his countrymen, took advantage of their weakness by providing them with opium, but he claimed only to be a businessman. Most of the white community feared him, although he had enough influence that they generally tolerated him."

"Stretched his neck for him," Dean observed. "That doesn't sound very tolerant to me."

Grace turned, gazing up at him, and once again his brain headed south, intrigued by the flawlessness of her complexion, the warmth of her dark eyes, her prettiness marred only by the frown-line between her brows.

"Remember I showed you how we honor our ancestors in the joss house? Well, no one honors Quon-Jin. The sin he committed was unpardonable, and it prompted a terrible race-war in the county that almost finished the Chinese here. Even so, there were many of the Chinese community who spoke out against what he had done, saying that he deserved his punishment. Based on my reading, I have to agree with them."

Dean looked back at the daguerreotype, noting again the upturned faces of the crowd around the hanging tree. The majority were white, but not all—sprinkled throughout were a handful of black men and several who could be Hispanic. It was hard to tell, but Dean thought that Chin was the only Asian in the picture.

"What did he do?" he asked.

"Let me show you."

Taking his elbow gently, Grace steered him toward a wooden filing cabinet near the reception desk, opening the drawer labeled A-D and pulling out a thin folder. The tab on it read "Chinese" in what looked like black grease-pencil.

"Do you want to sit? It can't be very comfortable for you, standing with that brace. Please, join me on the settee."

She sat on a threadbare loveseat and smiled up at him invitingly, giving him little choice but to sit close beside her. Not that he minded. Truth be told, his knee was starting to hurt again, and he was more than a little tired. _Damn drugs_. Didn't seem to be bothering his libido, though…

Once he was settled, Grace opened the folder and extracted a yellowed photocopy of an old newspaper article, handing it to him.

"CHINAMAN HANGED!!!" the headline screamed. "VIGILANCE COMMITTEE AVENGES LITTLE KATIE'S DEATH!"

"Ah," Dean murmured, taking the brittle paper gingerly. "I'm guessin' this is Rattlesnake's most famous murder."

The prose was purple, of course, filled with lurid details describing Quon-Jin Chin's final moments, but the upshot was simple. A little girl had been brutally murdered behind Eureka Street, and an eyewitness—Agnes Markham, in fact—named Chin as the killer. He'd been given a kangaroo trial and sentenced to death, with his punishment meted out that same afternoon.

Dean frowned, squinting to read the blurred type. "Who's this Katie? Seems like she was pretty popular."

"Actually, some people think that Katie Kaheny might be one of Rattlesnake's ghosts," Grace told him. "She was quite a well-known entertainer, even though she was only eight years old when she died. They called her 'the Little Darling of the Mother Lode,' and people came from all over Gold Rush country to see her sing and dance. They say that gold nuggets rained down around her when she performed, that's how much the miners loved her."

"I don't know," Dean said, mockingly doubtful. "Could be they were just throwin' rocks."

The young woman laughed, patting his arm as if to quell his irreverence. "Katie and her mother lived in Rattlesnake for several years—they came from San Francisco just after the second big fire here. It wiped out the whole south side of town, and Katie actually donated quite a bit of money to help rebuild. Well, her mother managed her money, of course, but it certainly helped their standing in the community."

"I'm guessin' that ol' Quon-Jin wasn't considered quite as upstanding a pillar." Dean looked up from the news article in his hand, to the small display of opium-smoking paraphernalia, to the daguerreotype of Chin's hanging.

Grace shrugged, her voice gone curiously flat. "Like I said, he was Chinese. To many of the whites in the mining towns, the Chinese were less than human. Would you like to hear something ironic, Dean? The name 'Quon-Jin' actually means 'Bright Gold.' Do you suppose his parents knew when he was born that he was destined to end his life in a time and place that worshipped gold?"

It took a long moment for Dean to respond, his thoughts on John Winchester's last words to his oldest son, on what their dad might have known about Sam, about the future. _Watch out for Sammy, Dean_, he'd said_. _What must it have been like, to die believing there was something evil in your youngest boy, so evil that one day your oldest might have to kill him?

Dean cleared his throat. "I don't put much stock in destiny, and I don't think any parent likes to think about the end of their kids' lives," he said gruffly.

After another second, he turned to her, handing back the photocopy and donning his favorite charming smile. "So, Quon-Jin means 'Bright Gold.' And Grace is Chinese for…?"

She laughed, quickly recovering from whatever had bothered her earlier. "You're smooth, Radon Man. 'Grace' is actually the English translation for part of my Chinese name."

"Which is?"

"Xiuying."

She laughed again as he tried it out, enunciating carefully but still managing to mangle it until she put a hand out, her fingers pressed gently against his lips.

"Please, call me Grace!"

Dean really liked the way her eyes sparkled. "Yeah, I think you're right. So, does it mean anything? Xiuying?" This time he got it right.

"'Graceful flower,'" she replied. "Like I said, my parents didn't have to be too creative to come up with my American name."

"Were they born in China?"

Grace raised her right hand briefly, as though taking an oath. "Full-blooded American, here; daughter of same. My family has been in the United States for several generations. What about you? Tell me something about yourself, besides the fact that you work for the Weather Service."

He shifted a little on the loveseat, replanting his braced leg so that it was slightly more comfortable. "Also American," he said solemnly, making her laugh one more time. "And 'Dean' is Kansan for 'dashing and handsome.'"

She chuckled, ducking her head, looking up at him almost demurely, and for just a second he was taken by the odd mix of her Old World charm and thoroughly modern confidence.

"Ah. 'Junjei,'" she translated. "It suits you."

"I always thought so." He tried for a grin that was cocky yet humble; wasn't sure he pulled it off, but she didn't seem to mind. "But you're not from around here, right? I mean, a smart girl like you, Rattlesnake doesn't seem like the kind of place that would--"

There was a funny look on her face, then, and he trailed off, not quite sure how he had erred. Or even _if_ he had erred.

Grace set her lips primly. "Would you like to hear something else ironic?"

She rose, brushing past him and moving once more to the wall where the daguerreotype was mounted. Again she tapped the glass with her fingernail, directly atop the figure of the hanging man.

"Quon-Jin Chin was my grandfather, eight times back. After his hanging, and after the race riot that followed Katie Kaheny's murder, our family were the only Chinese who remained in Rattlesnake. It's kind of like I've been here forever."

-:- -:- -:-

Over lunch at the Scotchbroom Café, Sam and Erica discussed the antipodes: history and current events; black holes and deep-sea vents; global warming and the last mini-Ice Age.

To Sam, in some respects it was oddly like breathing again. He savored the mental stimulation, ideas leaping from ideas spontaneously, sparking friendly, lively debate. Sparking a bone-deep thirst in him for intellectual challenge, where the subject had nothing to do with life or death, nothing to do with anything remotely supernatural. Talking with Erica was nothing like talking with Dean—from their father's death to the demon virus to Sam's dark destiny, the conversations with Dean this year had become filled with pitfalls, if the brothers even talked at all. But with Erica, almost everything seemed fair game for discussion.

Inevitably, though, their talk turned to Stanford.

"After sophomore year, I'd see you around campus every once in a while," Erica told him, nibbling on a slice of jalapeno. "Then our paths didn't cross so much. Guess you weren't studying geology or engineering, huh?"

Sam laughed around his last mouthful of sandwich.

"No," he said, swiping a napkin at the mustard on his lower lip, "not so much. I was pre-law."

"Are you in law school, then?"

"Uh, no. This, uh, opportunity came up to work with my brother, so I kinda ended up in the family business."

Stirring a packet of sugar into her iced tea with her straw, Erica raised an inquiring eyebrow at him. "You're in mining?"

It threw him for just a moment, until he remembered that Steve Hartson had introduced him as a cousin, and Sam grinned, a little embarrassed but mostly amused.

"No, Dean and I are security consultants. We're just in town visiting Steve for a couple of days."

Erica leaned forward with interest. "Security consultants. What, like executive protection? Or more like smoke-detector installers?"

"We do a little of everything, actually," he replied casually, hoping his vague response would encourage her to move on to another topic.

If anything, she seemed even more intrigued.

"Are you local? I mean, Bay Area? Central Valley?"

He crumpled the napkin in his fist. "Our work pretty much takes us all over the country—we spend a lot of time on the road."

It didn't feel like a lie—wasn't one, in fact—until Erica asked about their base of operations. He couldn't very well tell her that the Impala was their headquarters, so Sam finally opted for South Dakota, thinking of Bobby Singer's salvage yard and all the time they'd spent there recently. It was as good a place as any.

Somehow, his old classmate still seemed extremely impressed. "Wow. I'll bet you can't tell me about any of your jobs, either, can you?" she asked. "Confidentiality and all that? Your life sounds very cloak-and-dagger."

"You have no idea."

Erica beamed at him for a moment from across the table. "I'm glad we ran into one another, Sam," she said.

"Yeah," he replied, returning the smile. "Yeah, me, too."

And he meant it.

-:- -:- -:-

There was an awkward moment when the check arrived, both of them throwing startled looks at the waitress and then at one another.

"I'm sorry," Erica said, turning again to the waitress. "Could you bring us separate tabs?"

Sam blinked, ready to protest until he suddenly realized that he had a five and some ones on him, but that was it. Dean had most of the cash, and they were both pretty broke, depending on the North Cedar job to ease their current financial straits.

"I'm sorry," Erica apologized again, this time to Sam. "I can get reimbursed for my lunch, but I need a receipt."

"Well…no. No, that's fine. But did you want dessert or something?" he asked, trying to save face. "How about some ice cream, on me?"

She brightened at the suggestion, and the awkwardness of the lunch tab was on its way to being forgotten.

They paid their separate checks, Sam ordering a couple of ice cream cones and adding two dollars to the little pile of bills he handed the waitress. Then, while Erica hit the ladies' room, he wandered out onto the sidewalk, leisurely eating his vanilla cone from one hand while holding Erica's chocolate one in the other. When his cell rang, Sam stuffed the last of his dessert into his mouth and fished the phone out of his pocket, swallowing hurriedly before answering.

"_Never gonna keep your girlish figure, you eat both of those,"_ Dean said without preamble.

Chocolate ice cream began to dribble down his fingers as Sam scanned the sidewalks on either side of the street. Tourists and locals ambled casually past the knick-knack shops and drugstore, past the bar and the museum and some kind of historical landmark, but there was no sign of his brother.

"Hey," he replied, still chewing, unable to keep the color from rising in his cheeks. "Where are you?"

"_Seriously, man. Nice ass."_

"What?"

"_Not yours, you moron—hers!"_

Erica appeared at his side suddenly, laughing as she took the dripping cone from him.

"Sorry!" she said.

"_Dude, make her lick it off your fingers."_

"No! Uh, no, Erica—it's no probl…uh…"

Sam was immediately distracted as he watched her lap the chocolate mess off the cone with her tongue, Dean's voice in his ear.

"_Now that's what I'm talking about, Sammy!"_

Sam shook himself mentally. "See this?" he growled, turning away from Erica and shifting his grip on the phone slightly to extend his middle finger. "Where are you?"

Dean ignored the finger and the question. "_Who is she?"_

"The state mine inspector, Erica Holbrook."

"_Uh-huh. So, what—you two giving one another private inspections?" _

Sam reddened further as he looked up and down the sidewalks, still unable to spot his brother anywhere.

"I know her from school, Dean," he said impatiently. "We went to lunch so we could catch up. What are you doing?"

"_I'm researchin', Sammy, like I'm supposed to be doin'."_

Over the phone, Sam could hear the faint murmur of a young woman's voice and Dean's muffled reply about 'little brother.'

"Researching, right. Who's that with you?" he asked.

"_Wave, Sammy."_

Sam turned sharply, looking across Eureka Street at the bar and the museum, but the glare on the windows prevented him from seeing inside either one. "Dude, what the hell are you—"

"_Wave!"_ his brother barked, and Sam offered a half-hearted salute, which he quickly turned into an awkward one-armed stretch as Erica looked up at him curiously.

"Hey, Steve's up at the North Cedar—everything went okay with that, uh, project, so I'm going with Erica out into the field this afternoon, to see a couple other mines."

"_Have her in by midnight, and be sure to treat her like a lady."_

Dean chuckled lewdly, and Sam's brows knit in aggravation. "The mines are local, Dean—we'll be done in a few hours."

"_Jesus, Sammy, have I taught you nothing? And I meant my car, you moron…you can treat your girlfriend there however she wants you to treat her, although knowing you, you'll be done in five minutes, no matter what. Speaking of which, what kind of protection you got?"_

"Dean!"

"_Have fun!"_ Laughing, Dean broke off.

"Your brother?" Erica asked, biting into the cone now that she'd worked her way through the mound of melting chocolate.

"Yeah, my jerk of a brother." Sam made another visual sweep of the sidewalk, but wherever Dean was, he was still out of view.

Sighing, Sam pocketed the cell, realizing suddenly that his other hand was still sticky with ice cream. Then he caught sight of the brown smear across Erica's chin and smiled.

"I'll get some napkins—then let's hit the road."

-:- -:- -:-

Dean watched bemusedly as Sam came back out of the café with a handful of napkins. He and the girl exchanged more words and smiles while she wiped off her chin before scrabbling in her purse, coming up with what looked like a small bottle of hand sanitizer. Whatever it was, she poured it liberally into Sam's massive palm, then into her own.

Dean rolled his eyes as the two made a little show of slapping hands to spread the sanitizer, the girl laughing and Sam's smile so wide his dimples were apparent all the way across the street. Then they climbed into a giant white Yukon with state tags, Sam on the passenger side, and disappeared down Eureka toward the east end of Rattlesnake.

_Jesus_, Dean thought, _what the hell was going on in this town?_

The fan circled lazily overhead as he made his way toward the back of the museum, sitting down again at the old roll-top desk where he'd been culling through stacks of folders, old books with broken spines and faded lettering, newspapers crackling with age. With a sigh, he picked up a heavy leather volume containing fifty years' worth of the local historical society's newsletter and began leafing through it, looking for anything that might give him a lead on who or what had attacked Sam and Steve at the North Cedar Mine.

If Grace was curious about what someone from the Weather Service wanted with Rattlesnake's old news, she kept it to herself, leaving Dean to his business while she went about hers.

Initially it was hard not to be distracted by her. She moved economically through the museum, dusting and polishing, seeing that everything was in order before turning to her paperwork. Every movement was—well, graceful, Dean thought, before yanking his eyes back to the task at hand until the next time he caught himself watching her. Finally, however, he settled down to business.

Records regarding accidents at the North Cedar Mine were scattered few and far between. Maybe it had been an incredibly safe operation; more likely, the bad press had been kept to a minimum in deference to one of the area's richest families and principal employer. It was frustrating as hell, though, finding nothing Dean could reasonably relate to what had happened to Sammy and Steve down in the second drift.

_C'mon, Casper,_ he thought, grabbing another volume of newsletters and opening it with a silent groan_. Where you hiding?_

By the end of two hours of ass-numbing research, Dean had a list of three names that matched those Sam had written down in the Founders Cemetery, and four more fatalities dating from the 1930s. He'd also found a little blurb about an explosion that had buried three "celestials" in an ancillary shaft in 1853. There were no names given for the Chinese miners, and no effort had been made to save them; presumably, their bodies were still somewhere in the North Cedar.

He'd made other discoveries, as well. For one, as soon as she had arrived in town, Agnes Markham had formed a Ladies Society determined to save Rattlesnake from "heathens and Chinamen." And the reason why Grace's family had stayed in town after their patriarch had been lynched? It seemed that Quon-Jin's widow had ultimately taken over Delilah Reardon's job as local madam, running an active stable of 'singsong girls' who serviced the nearby mining camps. Interesting that Grace hadn't shared that little tidbit with him, Dean thought.

An assortment of loose pages had been stuffed into an old envelope in one of the folders, and he laid the papers out on the desk, just to be thorough. Several were stuck together, and Dean carefully peeled off a small news clipping adhered to the back of another document, a faint line forming between his brows as he read. Barely more than an inch high and regarding the accidental death of a toddler, the squib was dated January, 1854, the same year Katie Kaheny had died. The child, three-year-old Wren Markham, had choked to death in her crib at The Baron Hotel while her mother napped nearby.

Dean frowned, thinking back to the morning's visit to the Founders Cemetery, picturing the Markhams' gravesite, when suddenly Grace called out a warning.

"Prepare yourself!"

Dean jerked his head up from the clipping, reaching quickly behind him for the grip of his hand-gun. Then the museum door opened with a bang and a flood of schoolchildren spilled in, accompanied by a trail of harried-looking adults Dean assumed were teachers and parent volunteers.

The two dozen seven- and eight-year-olds moved like a wave upon sand, rushing fluidly through the display cases and around the antique furnishings until half of them dashed up against Grace in her colorful costume and the other half against him. Then the flow stopped abruptly, wide eyes taking each of them in, weighing them against known quantities in the real world, finding them both decidedly out of place.

One of the women clapped her hands sharply, her voice strident. "Attention, please! Boys and girls, I'd like you to say good afternoon to Miss Xiuying, who runs the Rattlesnake Museum."

There was a dutiful chorus of greetings with a lot of unique pronunciations of Grace's Chinese name, and then Dean listened with interest to Grace's smooth five-minute spiel about Gold Rush history. The kids listened, too—there was no reason they shouldn't. In her silk pajamas, Grace was entrancing, exotic and beautiful as she told them about life in an 1850s mining town. Whether or not the kids took in what she was saying, most of them couldn't take their eyes off her, nor could Dean. Warm and soft-spoken, she was an elegant butterfly flitting from one display case to another as she showed the children the museum's ancient treasures. He thought she was simply amazing.

As she wound down, however, several of the children closest to Dean began to fidget impatiently, watching him from the corners of their eyes, whispering amongst themselves.

When Grace's talk ended, they turned on him with avid curiosity.

"Are you a zibbit?" one little girl piped, and Dean wet his lower lip.

"A zibbit? Uh, no, I don't think so," he replied uncertainly.

The girl nudged a boy standing next to her. "See? I didn't think he was a dummy," she said with a sniff. "He's not wearing the right clothes."

Ah, Dean thought. 'Exhibit.' It had been a long time since he'd spoken second-grader.

"Who are you?" the boy challenged Dean at once. "You're not with our school, and if you're not a dummy, I don't think you're supposed to be here."

Dean let his eyebrows crawl up his forehead. _Cocky little bastard, for somebody so short_.

"Listen, squirt, I'm not a zibbit, and I'm not a dummy, and—" He caught the amused remonstrance in Grace's eye from across the room, and backed off at once. "I'm a friend of Miss Xiuying," he finished lamely.

"You're her boyfriend!" another little girl shrilled excitedly, and suddenly everyone was anxious to see the man who had captured the exotic Miss Xiuying's heart.

"Do you kiss her?"

"What's that metal thing on your leg?"

"Are you Chinese, too?"

"Are you a miner?"

"Did you discover gold?"

"What's your name?"

The questions came in a flurry as the children clamored around him, examining him so closely it was Dean's turn to squirm.

"Help!" he called to Grace good-naturedly. "I'm a zibbit!"

She pulled herself out of her conversation with the teacher, moving easily through the displays to the children surrounding Dean, dropping to their level, smiling warmly as she put her arms around their shoulders.

"You found Junjei!" she told them with delight. "I'll tell you a little secret—he's one of my favorite parts of the entire museum."

"He's cute," a girl with curly red locks said solemnly, and Dean couldn't help but preen when several little heads nodded vigorously. "Are you gonna marry him?"

Grace caught his eye and winked. "Not this week, but maybe someday. I like to keep my options open."

Then the teacher clapped her hands again, announcing it was time to move along and to please not get any more fingerprints on the display cases. The tide of small bodies ebbed back toward the front of the museum.

"You were awesome, Miss Xiuying," Dean told Grace with a grin. "Best zibbit in the whole damn town."

She pressed a finger to his mouth, a mock scowl on her face. "Language, Junjei! There are children present!"

In fact, there was one child still with them, a little girl Dean hadn't noticed before, tugging gently but insistently at Grace's long, silk sleeve.

"Who's that man?" she asked, pointing, and Grace smiled again into Dean's eyes.

"I thought you all decided that he was my boyfriend," she said.

"Not _that_ man," the child replied, her tone chastising, the hand with which she pointed moving slightly. "_That_ man!"

Dean whirled to look, his hackles rising, but there was no one there to see.

-:- -:- -:-

_TBC. Thanks for reading! Comments are welcomed._


	7. Chapter 7

_You're all FAR too smart for me! lol – I've already wondered how some of you were managing to "read ahead," and it becomes more and more apparent to me just how sharp, how observant our fandom is, you in particular. As we know, the Devil is in the details! Cookies and kudos to you all._

_There's a little somethin'-somethin' for Harrigan in this chapter, and Maz? Your 'thing' was already here way before you saw Chapter Six, but now it belongs to you. I hope you'll still approve of how it's handled. Z, Erin go bragh Your peeps are my peeps, too._

_Enjoy (I hope)! Thanks very much for reading!_

**Rush**

**Chapter Seven**

Grace watched quietly from the loveseat as Dean prowled the empty museum, EMF meter in his hand and darkness in his eyes.

The detector was silent, needle not so much as quivering.

"Damn it!" he said, voice tight with angry frustration. "Grace, I _know_ there are things in this town—I _know_ it! I've seen 'em, heard 'em, felt 'em—smelled 'em, even—but I can't get a bead on any of 'em! Why is that?"

From the blank look on her face, the curator had nothing to offer, and Dean raised his arms from his sides with a wide shrug, shaking his head.

"I don't get it," he muttered to the air around him. "I just don't effin' get it."

Grace stood, crossing to him almost gingerly and putting a tentative hand on his sleeve.

"Junjei? I'm guessing that you're not really with the Weather Service, are you?"

It was obvious from her tone that she already knew the answer, but the attempt at humor surprised him a little, under the circumstances. Dean blinked, huffing a laugh before snapping off the EMF meter and stuffing it back into his pocket.

"You think maybe global warming has something to do with why spooks aren't actin' the way they should?" he joked back, then shrugged again, feeling lame. "I just know some things about some things, is all, but this? This doesn't make sense."

His ringtone blared suddenly, the sound definitely out of place inside the quiet museum of century-old artifacts, and Dean quickly fished the cell from the depths of his jacket, glancing briefly at the display.

Not Sammy, and he was going to have to recharge soon...

"Steve! What's up?"

"_Sam went off with the state mine inspector_," Steve Hartson's voice came through querulously.

"Yeah, he's takin' care of business. Nothing happened today, right?" Dean watched his words; although Grace had courteously moved away, back to the little counter area where she did her work, there was no way she couldn't hear every word of the conversation.

"_No, nothing really_," Steve answered, "_but Sam said I shouldn't go back down until I get clearance from the two of you_."

"Well, Sam knows what he's talkin' about, so you just stay up top, 'less one of us is with you. He's already taken steps to, uh, secure that first location."

Tucking the phone in closer, Dean hobbled to the rear of the museum and began rifling through the stack of papers he'd abandoned on the roll-top desk.

"Listen," he said, quickly scanning the item he'd been looking for, "there was an explosion way back, just a couple of years after the mine opened, and three miners got snuffed. Newspaper says the bodies were just left down in the auxiliary shaft."

"_No, no, that's not true_," Steve told him matter-of-factly. "_You're talking about those three Chinese muckers, right? Guys who shoveled ore into the carts?_"

"Uh, says here 'celestials.'"

"_Yeah, Chinese. Hey, they knew those guys were dead, and there was no way to get them out, besides, but nobody forgot about them. I remember my grandfather telling how they found what was left of them in the 1920s, sometime, when the shaft got reopened_."

"You sure?"

"_Hell yes, I'm sure. They're buried out in the new cemetery, now. Bones are all mixed up because they couldn't tell who was who, and nobody knew their names, anyway, but there's even a little marker. Something about 'our deepest respects,' I think_."

Dean chewed on his lip for a second, then nodded against the phone.

"Yeah, all right. Hey, Steve? Tell me somethin'—just how far down is the Forty-Eight?"

At the other end, Steve paused for just a moment, then said slowly, "_How far down? The tunnel to reach it is forty-eight hundred feet long, Dean. That's why it's called that_."

"Oh. So, just about a mile, then. Huh."

"_Why?_"

"Nothin'. Just curious, is all. And except for this sonofabitch that attacked you and my brother, there's nothin' else down there, right?"

"_No, not that I know of_."

"Nothin' buried?"

"_Just minerals. You know, granite and quartz and gold_."

"Yeah, okay then." Dean raised a hand to the back of his neck, ruffling the hair at his nape thoughtfully. "All right, then. You just stay outta there until we tell you it's okay, okay?"

There was no doubt that the mine-owner was relieved by the direction. "_I can do that_," he said gratefully, and the call was over.

Dean put the cell away and sank tiredly into the roll-away chair, wincing as he massaged the area around his throbbing knee.

"Dean? Is everything all right?" Grace asked, her eyes worried as she came hesitantly toward him.

It was hard to dredge up the energy to respond, and Dean was pretty sure she wouldn't buy his fake smile this time, anyway.

"Just wish I had some answers," he told her quietly. "All I've got is more questions."

-:- -:- -:-

After ice cream, Sam and Erica had climbed into the state-owned Yukon, heading out for Old Stagecoach Road and the string of small mines on Erica's inspection list.

"They're all abandoned," she called now to Sam over the rush of air through the open windows. "Still, we have to check them out every year, make sure everything's the way it should be."

"What do you look for?" Sam shouted back.

"Any signs that someone's working the dig," she replied, rolling her window up halfway so they didn't have to speak so loudly. "Safety issues. Current conditions and configurations. Re-vegetation. Basic stuff like that. There are a couple that are pretty close to Rattlesnake, so we can at least take care of those two before I head back to Sacramento." She smiled at him across the wide front seat. "I'm glad you're coming along, Sam."

-:- -:- -:-

The Collier Mine was little more than a coyote hole, a shallow excavation dug into the side of a small rise a quarter-mile or so off the road.

They had already chatted desultorily for hours, but now Sam steered the conversation toward business. _His_ business.

"Hey, Erica, back to the North Cedar for a second—Steve said there were a couple dozen miners who died there over the years, but I thought hard-rock mines didn't have cave-ins. What do you suppose happened to them?"

She barely gave it a moment's thought, busy making notes about the Collier shaft. "You're right that hard-rock cave-ins are rare below a hundred and fifty feet, but they do happen. Tons of rock moving out of there 24/7, there's always the possibility of collapse, somewhere, or someone getting crushed. A pocket of gas explodes, or a charge goes off early; you could lose a number of people that way. Longer-term deaths from silicosis, maybe, but those probably aren't the ones Steve's told you about."

"No, I was thinking more along the lines of sudden death."

She handed him one end of a tape-measure, then stepped backward, reeling out the tape as she went.

"Wow, you really _are_ in the security business, aren't you?" she called. "I've been kind of wondering about the bruises, and that cut on your lip."

Truth was, he'd forgotten all about them until she reminded him, and Sam found himself suddenly a little more self-conscious than he'd been in a while.

"Uh…no, these I got from…um. They're just…." He heaved a quick sigh, shrugging. "Yeah, okay, you caught me. I got beat up on a job. Three guys, dark alley, brass knuckles; I got these, they'll get seven to ten down at Folsom. I could tell you more, but then—you know."

"Yeah, then you'd have to kill me," Erica laughed, finishing the joke for him. "Fine, don't tell me. Anyway, sudden deaths in a mine? You're probably talking about normal things like heart attacks or aneurysms, plus the other stuff I mentioned. Other kinds of accidents? Pick-axe or hammer hits the wrong thing, or a guy gets his foot crushed by an ore-skip, dies of blood-loss or shock before they can get him out. Of course, there's always murder. Steve doesn't have records?"

"No, I don't think so. But, wait—murder?"

"Thirty feet," she commented, then made her way back to him, penciling the measurement into her logbook quickly. "Oh, you bet. Especially in the early days, when you'd get different kinds of crews down in a mine at the same time. Lots of racial tension, sometimes; like, between the Irish and the Chinese. Or, if somebody got caught high-grading—stealing ore—and didn't want to get ratted out? Kill the witness before he could turn you in, right? Sawyer's Jackass Mine's next…it's within walking distance, if you're game."

"Sure. You know, all this oversight by the state—would your office have records about the deaths at the North Cedar?"

"I don't know, but I can check."

They climbed a steep rise away from the Collier entrance, past manzanita and toyon bushes and scattered granite boulders, out from the shade of the pines into bright sunlight. The dead pine-straw underfoot reflected the heat, and Sam quickly doffed his long-sleeve shirt, tying the arms around his waist.

"Be careful—poison oak," Erica warned, pointing, and he grinned a little. On a really bad day back when he'd been an annoying 15-year-old, Dean had steered him right into a patch of the stuff. Intentionally. Poison oak wasn't particularly high on the Winchesters' list of dangerous things, but the aftermath? _Not pretty_.

Sawyer's Jackass Mine wasn't much more than a hole in the ground with a few pollen-dusted boards across it and a small cairn of rocks to one side. It was out in the open, the sun blazing directly down on it, and Sam and Erica were both sweating when they reached it.

"We have to…watch out for…mines like these," she panted, running a hand across her forehead to wipe it dry. "If they're not covered…people fall right in. Just happened…to a guy not…ten miles from here. He was lucky…someone found him."

Sam watched her pull out her logbook again and make a few notations—something about a six-month recheck of the boards covering the vertical shaft. A bead of perspiration trickled down the slope of her nose, and she batted at it in irritation, then turned the page and made more notes.

"You really like your job, don't you?" he asked, smiling. "I can tell."

The look she gave him was vaguely puzzled.

"Of course. Don't you like yours?"

He started to laugh sardonically, but something made him stop. It was a complex question, and one he didn't ask himself. Not anymore, not after he'd lost so much to the life he led—Jess, his dad, his future. Dean, almost, more times than Sam cared to think about. Never knew his mother, and was terrified that one day he would turn into the very kind of thing that had killed her. How could he possibly like a job like that?

But he and his brother _did_ help people; he believed that for certain. Even in his darkest hours—and there were plenty of them—Sam had faith that what they were doing was for the greater good, whatever their personal motives, whatever their personal losses.

_Plus, there was Dean. Always and interminably, there was major pain-in-the-ass Dean, whom Sam admired and loved more than life itself, and who amply returned the sentiment. Even if it was sometimes with a rabbit-punch to the jaw. _

There'd been a number of sea-changes in the year and a half they had been back together, shocks and revelations that neither one of them fully understood, and there was no telling what the road might bring them next. Where it would take them. Still, they were together, and that went a long way toward making up for all the bad.

So how he could _not_ like their job?

"Yeah," Sam said, nodding at last, a half-smile still tugging at his mouth. "Yeah, my job is…just great. Wouldn't trade it for the world."

Erica stowed the logbook in her bag and wiped her hands on the seat of her khakis, her eye caught by something at the mine entrance.

"You know," she said, moving toward it, "I'm still not really even sure what it is you—"

"Erica!"

There was no coiling, no tell-tale rattle as the snake struck without warning, lashing out with dripping fangs from behind the cairn of rocks.

In one second, Sam had flung Erica aside and drawn the gun from the small of his back, firing once, twice, three times until the diamondback was a headless, blasted mass of still-writhing flesh.

Sam huffed a deep breath, then turned to where Erica lay sprawled in the dry weeds.

"Hey!" He hurried to her side, helped her stand. "You okay?"

She laughed shakily. "Yeah—and that's a part of the job I _don't _like! Thank you!"

"Did it get you? Let me see."

Erica had a firm grip on his arms, and he could feel her trembling. "My boot," she said. "It's okay; he didn't get through. God, that was scary!"

She leaned against him as the adrenaline flushed from their bodies, and Sam put his arms loosely around her, holding her lightly to steady her.

Tentatively, Erica embraced him in return, her arms around his waist, tightening, and for a long moment they just stood there, Sam suddenly conscious that he still had the gun in his hand, more conscious of the way her body fit against his.

He shifted uncomfortably, finding other things to focus on—the bright blue flash of a Steller's jay in the trees across the meadow, the snarl of a chainsaw away to the west, the hint of gunpowder hanging in the still, hot air—but ultimately there was only Erica.

He knew she could feel his reaction, but for now he really didn't care. He inhaled deeply and pulled her to him, bending down to her, liking the way she felt in his arms, liking her smell, liking her taste. They kissed tenderly for a long moment, until finally Erica broke away, smiling, pink-cheeked and awkward.

"It's about forty minutes to my place," she said hesitantly. "There's beef stew in the crock-pot. Would you like to come?"

Sam decided he would.

-:- -:- -:-

Grace had taken Dean home for dinner, but they'd skipped ahead to dessert first.

Oh, she felt _good_, sliding under his hands. The silk of her clothing, of her hair, of her skin….

Part of him was thinking about the brace, and that was a good thing, because it gave Dean something to focus on besides just how much he wanted to fuck her. He couldn't leave the brace locked straight, that was for damn sure, but how the hell was he going to manage—

Grace broke free for just a moment, running her hand down the side of his face, planting the other against his chest, her eyes just a little dazed.

"Dean, wait," she murmured against his lips, breathing hard. "Please. Can we slow down just a little?"

Dean wasn't sure she meant it, since she was the one who'd gotten things started. She was trembling, and he was willing to bet good money she was wet and ready for him. But a break would give him a little longer to work out the logistics. He disentangled one hand from her hair, drew the other one out from under her blouse and down her body, then surreptitiously loosened the bindings at his knee.

"Sure thing, sweetheart," he replied gallantly. "I don't want to rush you."

-:- -:- -:-

They were on the couch, Erica straddling his hips, their mouths feeding hungrily on one another. Erica arched away, breaking their kiss just long enough to draw her shirt off over her head, one hand behind her to unhook her bra and wriggle out of it, the other already scrabbling at Sam's t-shirt.

Sam gulped air, his heart pounding, blood rushing into all sorts of interesting places as he shucked off his shirt and pulled her to him, his hands in her hair, fingers biting into her arms, her breasts. He _wanted _her, wanted to take her hard and fast, lose himself inside her without thinking.

It felt right, to be here with her, to have her in his arms, to make love to her until they were both spent and gasping like beached dolphins. It _was_ right, he thought—and thought again, suddenly pushing her away, turning his face to the ceiling, his breath shuddering out of him.

"Sam? Is something wrong? Your arm--"

He tried to laugh at how ridiculous it was, to be right here on the _brink_ with this smart, pretty girl he liked, and yet…

Sam sucked in another breath, pulling it deep into his lungs, shaking his head and trying to understand exactly what it was he was feeling.

"No, Erica—no. Nothing's wrong. It's just—I was just thinking…"

And there it was.

There would come a time soon when he could let it all go, all the hopes and dreams he'd had with Jess, but right now he simply wasn't ready. Not just yet.

"I'm sorry," Sam said honestly, feeling the rush of blood into his cheeks this time. "I really am sorry. But this is moving a little fast."

-:- -:- -:-

"Well, now, Leland, lad!" The voice boomed from nowhere and everywhere, and for a moment, Steve Hartson could see his breath before him, even though he'd just turned out the light in the mine office, ready to call it a night. Then something was beside him, something glowing blue and menacing, its hands ice cold on his throat as the voice came again in whispered threat. "Hurryin' away when I've just got here. Tell me, boyo—what's the rush?"

Steve began to scream.

-:- -:- -:-

When his cell phone rang nearly an hour later, Sam was almost at the Rattlesnake turnoff, the Impala taking the long rise into the foothills easily over a highway silvered with moonlight.

"_Put it back in your pants and get up here, now_," his brother's voice came through gruffly. "_Meet me at the mine_."

"Why? What's going on?"

"_Somethin' went after Steve, and the mine office burned down_."

Sam blinked in surprise. "I'll be there in ten," he said. "Is Steve okay?"

"_Scared and shook up is all_," Dean replied. "_There's fire trucks all over the place, but they're startin' to clear ou—hey. You were already on your way? Dude, it's barely time for supper. What happened with the inspector?_"

Sam thumped a thumb against the steering wheel with a smile. "That's none of your business," he said, knowing the non-answer would never satisfy his brother.

In fact, he'd actually left things with Erica just fine; and he _felt_ more fine than he had in a long while. There were just some things that Dean didn't need to know.

"_Dude_." Sam could hear the reproach in Dean's voice. "_If you were ever gonna get lucky…_."

"I _am_ lucky," he interrupted without rancor, wondering briefly if there were any way Dean could ever understand. "I'll see you in a few."

-:- -:- -:-

There was a single pumper-truck remaining in the mine's yard, several volunteer fire-fighters still poking among the embers and sodden ashes of what was left of the office building, others busy stowing the hose and other gear.

Sam found his brother standing with Steve and a girl near the North Cedar headframe. The mine-owner was enveloped in an old woolen blanket, one hand wrapped tightly around a half-finished Styrofoam cup of what Sam assumed was coffee, or maybe whiskey.

The Chinese girl—_the Chinese girl!_—had changed out of the pink-and-black silk outfit he'd first seen her in, and was now wearing jeans, a tee, and a button-down shirt that was way too big on her.

Sam looked closer. It was hard to tell in the dark, with the light bar from the fire-truck still splashing red across the mine buildings and surrounding trees, but he thought the shirt was Dean's.

"Hey," he said as he joined them, checking in with his brother by a quick meeting of eyes. _All right, then._ _Both Winchesters strong and standing._ "Steve, you okay?"

Steve looked stunned, his mouth working once or twice soundlessly, and the girl put a comforting arm around him.

"He's fine," she said encouragingly. "Aren't you, Steve?"

Sam glanced again at his brother, who nodded slightly.

"He's doin' just great," Dean said. "Hey, Grace, this is my brother, Sam. Sam, this is Grace Chin."

"Hey," Sam greeted her with a dip of his head. "Grace, from the museum? The Markhams mentioned you. Said you know all there is to know about Rattlesnake's past."

"Hi, Sam," she replied warmly. "I wish we'd been able to meet under happier circumstances."

"Yeah, well, we can all have tea and crumpets together tomorrow and really get to know one another," Dean said brusquely, "but for now, Grace needs to get home, and Sammy and I need to talk to Steve."

Grace nodded, hugging Steve close for just a moment, then patting him gently on the shoulder. "Take care, Steve. If you need anything, please don't hesitate to call me."

To Sam's astonishment, when she moved to Dean's side, she threaded her arm in his.

"See me to my car, Junjei?" she asked quietly.

Dean cleared his throat, shooting Sam a glance before accompanying her to a light-colored Toyota RAV 4 several yards away and opening the door for her.

"You go straight home," Dean told her, his voice low. Sam heard anyhow, and quirked an eyebrow as they shared a quick kiss. Then Dean shut Grace inside the car, stepping back as she started the engine and drove carefully past the fire-truck and out of the mine yard.

Sam blinked.

_Oh._

"What are you lookin' at?" Dean growled, blustering just a little as he rejoined them, and Sam grinned.

Then frowned, because there was no way Dean could have—well, not in a brace, anyway, unless he—

Sam rolled his eyes. "Fuck, Dean. You didn't!"

"No, Sam," his brother barked back, not an ounce of denial in the response. "_You_ didn't. Probably the best chance you've had in God knows how long, and you couldn't bring it home—"

"Guys?" Steve interjected quietly. "Something tried to kill me tonight. Could somebody please tell me what the hell is going on?"

-:- -:- -:-

They brought the mine-owner back to the hotel, sat him down in the parlor and jimmied open the Markhams' liquor cabinet. Then they gave him a stiff shot of island Scotch to warm him up and stave off shock.

There wasn't much Steve could tell them, given what little he remembered: a large miasma of blue cloud, a man's threatening voice, icy hands on his throat. Then, somehow, a broken lamp sparking across the rug, and tendrils of hungry flame eating at papers and wood everywhere.

"It was the same spirit—big guy, miner's clothes, right? You've got to remember something else, Steve," Sam prodded. "Something special about what he was wearing. Something he did, something he said."

Dean was kneading his leg gingerly, trying to ease the ache out of it without much success. "You said you heard his voice. What did it sound like? Sammy, this guy last night say anything besides 'Hartson Mine' when he attacked you?"

Sam was about to say no when Steve suddenly sat upright, looking at them wide-eyed.

"Accent!" he blurted. "He had an English accent!"

The brothers exchanged glances, Sam nodding now.

"That would make sense," he said. "After the first years, most of the miners here were from Cornwall. Could be one of them who's haunting the North Cedar."

Steve bobbed his head vigorously. "I'm sure it was Cornish, because he even said something kind of English-sounding."

Dean snorted. "What, like 'God save the Queen'? 'Manchester United'? What?"

"No, no—something like…" The mine-owner paused, frowning in concentration, and Sam shot Dean another look.

"Dean, we've figured all along it was one of the miners who died at the North Cedar who's causing the trouble," Sam said quietly. "Without a name, or some more information, we've still got nothing to go on. Did you find anything at the museum today? Besides Grace, I mean."

Dean twitched an eyebrow. "Yeah, I found out that museums can be dangerous places, Sam, depending on who's in 'em," he replied snidely, and Sam reared back just a little.

"What are you talking ab—"

Steve had a tight grip on his glass of whiskey, his face screwed with effort as he dredged up the memory. "'Leland,'" he muttered in an odd tone, apparently an attempt to recreate the accent he'd heard. Both brothers leaned forward with interest. "'Leland Hartson, you owe me, and isn't that half grand?'"

He looked up in triumph. "Yeah! 'Isn't that half grand'! That's an English expression, right?"

Sam was disappointed at the revelation, getting nothing from it, but he saw Dean's expression grow suddenly thoughtful, his lips pursing, brows drawing close.

"Dean?"

His brother flashed a sudden, amiable grin. "Steve, you can't do accents for shit. Think a second—it was Irish, not English, wasn't it?"

Steve blinked, reflecting, then nodded slowly. "Yeah—yeah, Dean, I think you're right. It _was_ Irish. How'd you know that?"

The hunter's grin turned smug as he flicked his eyes at his little brother. "'Cause last night this same sonofabitch told you the North Cedar was rightfully _his_ mine, and tonight he let you know he thinks your great-granddaddy should've paid him more than five hundred dollars for it."

Sam's agile mind quickly put the pieces together. "Five hundred dollars is half a grand," he said, and Dean shot him with his finger.

"Yahtzee," he said.

"William Clancy," Steve breathed, staring briefly into his whiskey glass, then from Dean to Sam and back again with bleary eyes. "It's Bull Clancy, right?"

"First time," Dean affirmed, his grin fading when he caught sight of Sam's face and the deepening frown on it.

"But why?" the younger man said. "Dean, we saw Clancy's monument out at the Founders Cemetery. Guy didn't die until 1883, and he sure as hell wasn't penniless—headstone said he made a fortune off the Inishmurray mine. Why would he be after Steve down inside the North Cedar?"

"Sam, do you memorize things just to piss me off?" Dean asked with a growl. "I don't know, all right? Maybe he's just a cranky old bastard."

"It just doesn't add up."

Steve took another hit off his glass of whiskey while Dean watched every one of the wheels in his little brother's head whir into life, turning briskly while the line between his eyebrows got even deeper.

Finally, Sam heaved a sigh, vexed.

"I don't know, man. So what if Clancy wasn't happy with what he got paid for the mine? That doesn't explain why he's so angry with Steve, or why he's haunting the Forty-Eight. He didn't die there, nobody murdered him, and where's he been all this time, anyway? There's got to be something more we don't know."

"You think? C'mon, Sammy—what does it matter?"

"It matters because I want to know, Dean. If Clancy had such a beef with the Hartson family, shouldn't he have haunted Leland? I mean, shouldn't Steve's whole family have had grief from this guy? Seriously, Steve—you've never heard stories about the ghost of Bull Clancy, right? Right. See? It doesn't make sense."

Steve put his glass down on the coffee table with a clunk and cleared his throat.

"Well…" he began, and the Winchesters exchanged a meaningful glance before giving Steve their full attention.

"Yes?" Dean prompted, just a hint of ice in his voice.

Steve looked everywhere but at them. "You know how I said I don't go down into the Forty-Eight any more?"

"You _did_," Sam said, getting it immediately. "You _did_ go down there, until something happened to scare you away. What was it?"

Steve made a little face, trying to figure out where to begin. "It took me a while to come back to Rattlesnake after my dad died. I mean, what was I going to do with an abandoned gold mine, right? But then I started thinking about tourism—about family-friendly adventure travel, you know—and how perfect the whole friggin' Mother Lode is for that. I could make the mine a destination, and Rattlesnake could come back to life."

Swiping a hand across his mouth, Dean shot Sam another glare. "Any time this century, Steve," he growled. "Could you just cut to the chase?"

"What happened in the Forty-Eight?" Sam prodded more gently, although he was uncertain Steve was paying attention to anything more than his own story.

"I knew the lower drifts had been reclaimed by ground water, but everything above the Forty-Eight was dry, and that was perfect. Both adventure-wise and historically, I mean--the Forty-Eight's where Leland found the biggest, richest lode in practically the entire state, and once you've seen one drift, you've seen them all. So I didn't need to worry about people going any deeper than that."

Dean fidgeted in his chair, opening his mouth to speak but subsiding impatiently when Sam cut him off without a word. _Let Steve get it out at his own pace_, his brother's admonishing glance said clearly, and although Dean rolled his eyes in response, he settled back with a huff, fingers toying absently with the Velcro strap across his thigh.

"So once I decided, I went down in," the mine-owner continued slowly, his voice growing bleaker with every word. "First time I'd been down there since high school, I think. I had a big flashlight and a bottle of wine with me, and when I got down to the Forty-Eight, I toasted old Leland. You know, I said I was going to follow in his footsteps; make the mine pay off again just like he had done."

"What exactly did you say, Steve?"

Sam's tone was empathetic and encouraging, and this time, Steve looked up at them, hollow-eyed and plainly understanding now the terrible error he had made.

"I gave a toast to the pioneer spirit that had given rise to the North Cedar and to the Hartson family fortunes," he told them with dismay. "I said, 'May that spirit continue with me as I bring the North Cedar back to what she once was, the gem of the Mother Lode.' Then I suddenly started to feel something happening, like something—I don't know, like something awful was being born down in the drift. It seemed crazy, you know? But I got really scared, and I just—I got out of there as fast as I could. I mean, I hadn't been talking about _that _kind of spirit...."

Dean chuckled dryly. "Yeah, well. Ghosts aren't big on semantics."

"It's all right," Sam said to the downcast mine-owner. "Now that we know who it is that's been haunting you, we can take care of it. Come on—it's safer for you if you're with us."

The Winchesters stood suddenly, Sam shrugging back into the jacket he had discarded earlier while Dean leaned down to tighten the locking mechanism on his knee-brace. Even befuddled with whiskey, Steve could clearly see that they were preparing for action.

"Salt?" the older brother said, his voice brusque and business-like.

"Trunk," the younger replied. "Lighter fluid?"

"New can with the shovel. Matches?"

"Right pocket. Let's roll."

"Where are we going?" Steve asked, mystified by the brothers' rapid give-and-take.

"Founders Cemetery," Sam responded easily, but the answer didn't help the bewildered man.

"What are we going to do out there?"

"You're gonna sit in the car and not see or say anything," Dean told him, grabbing up the bottle of Scotch to return it to the liquor cabinet before pointing a reproving finger. "And, Steve—in the future? Dude, you've gotta be more careful about who you pick to be your drinking buddies."

-:- -:- -:-

The ache in his knee wasn't so bad, now, but Sam had still pressed Dean to take more painkillers; had still driven the Impala all the way down the narrow lane with Dean in the back keeping anxious lookout for encroaching branches; had still refused to allow his older brother to do any of the digging after they left Steve in the car and strolled almost casually into the Founders Cemetery, to disinter William "Bull" Clancy and send him on to the great hereafter. Or wherever.

Sam kept up a spirited monologue the whole time he dug, any remaining pain in his injured arm or the knot on his head apparently forgotten as he flung dirt from the gravesite, talking virtually nonstop. Relegated to guard-duty, Dean planted his ass on a cool granite headstone beside Clancy's tomb, casting a dark shadow in the bright moonlight and listening with growing consternation as his brother chattered on about winzes and stopes and placer and troy. Snakes, too, for some reason, and coyote holes and drifts—before long, Dean began to regret not taking the drugs.

He hadn't seen Sam this hopped up on something in a long time. Certainly not since their dad had died.

But Sammy'd been like this when he was a kid, Dean remembered idly, watching the pile of dirt grow higher beside the deepening hole; he'd get some bug up his ass about dinosaurs or the rainforest or something, and then he'd stuff his brain so full of information that there wasn't anywhere else for it to go but to spill out of his mouth. Once, when he was seven, Sam had gone on about Australia for two solid weeks, until Dean nearly couldn't take it any more. Convicts and aborigines and marsupials; that song about Matilda—it was like the kid just couldn't shut up. Their dad had finally put an end to that particular episode with his usual diplomacy: a growled curse, and his index finger stabbing the air sharply. "Sam, not one more word," he'd ordered, and that had been it for Australia.

Dean grinned at the memory, because Sammy hadn't stopped for long. The next week, his topic of obsession had been how condor chicks imprint on hand puppets, and the week after that it was Katrina Thompkins, the best dodge-ball player in second grade.

_Leave it to Geek-Boy to get excited over a big hole in the ground. Not like it was the Grand Canyon or anything, for cripe's sake…_.

"…nearly five and a half…million ounces before the Hartsons… closed it. So the North Cedar had, like…the third richest lode in the state, according to Erica. She's…got an amazing grasp of the details," Sam said with the next five shovelfuls, and Dean suddenly recognized the real thread running through his brother's lecture.

_Erica_.

Maybe he'd been wrong about Sammy scoring earlier, and maybe he hadn't. Dean shifted against the headstone, smiling thoughtfully, letting the spate of Sam's words wash over him like a warm tide as he listened to the gentle, rushing murmur of his little brother falling in love.

-:- -:- -:-

The salt-and-burn had gone off without a hitch, and after getting Steve safely back to his own place, the Winchesters had returned to The Baron Hotel and turned in.

Despite the exercise in the cemetery, or maybe because of it, Sam remained stubbornly awake, unable to drift off, thoughts tumbling in his head, flitting past without leaving a lasting impression, just a vague feeling of excitement and dread. They were an odd combination, and finally he gave up on sleep entirely, rising from his bed and quietly taking care of business in the bathroom, then dressing in the dark.

Dean slept slack-jawed and undisturbed not five feet away, perhaps the aftermath of Elko, still, plus the painkillers Sam had finally forced on him once they had returned from salting and burning William Clancy. It had taken the older Winchester all of five minutes to crash, and Sam knew from experience that Dean was likely to be out for hours.

He scribbled a hasty note, which he propped on the night-stand where his brother could easily find it when he awoke. Double-checked the salt-lines and the EMF meter, just to be sure, then eased silently out of the room and the hotel.

The sky was just beginning to pearl with sunrise when Sam slid into the Impala and started her up, heading out of Rattlesnake, down the hill over roads dusted yellow with pollen, and out of the Mother Lode.

He ran into commuter traffic several times during the drive, but he still hit Palo Alto in early mid-morning. Two-thirds of the way through the spring term, their hands full of books and coffee cups, students made their way to labs and lectures past trees bursting with green and kiosks fluttering with colorful handbills announcing the upcoming annual arts and crafts fair.

Sam found a place to park, then began the long amble across campus. It hadn't changed—he hadn't been gone that long, after all—but Stanford existed now in a world entirely separate from his own. There were still people here he knew, yet not a one of whom knew the real him. The bereaved son. The hunter. The man with demon-spawned visions who seemed fated to become something even more different than any of them could possibly imagine, unless he could change his destiny.

Despite his thoughts, his feet found their way unerringly to the library where he and Jess had spent so many hours together, flirting, studying, wooing one another. The building was unlocked, and Sam hesitated only a second before crossing the threshold, shutting away the darkness to concentrate on the task at hand.

He didn't recognize the student worker at the check-out desk, so he moved directly to the stairwell, climbing two steps at a time to the third floor, then back through the stacks to the study carrels at the east wall. Found their spot. Tried to picture just for a moment the Sam and Jessica who had existed in that space, in a time now irretrievably lost. Ran one hand through empty air the way he'd once run his hand through her hair, drawing her close to steal a kiss.

For an instant there was an odd feeling in his chest, tightening and then letting go, but then _he_ let go, a long sigh escaping him. There were no ghosts here, he was certain, nothing to keep him any longer, and Sam turned to leave.

He spent another two hours revisiting their old haunts, not rushing, giving himself time to let the memories come and be recognized. Be dealt with. His cell had buzzed a couple of times, but Sam hadn't answered, letting each of Dean's calls go to voicemail.

It was funny, he reflected, how Dean had been such a pivotal part of him going to Stanford, and then no part of Stanford at all. Not the lecture halls, nor the coffee carts, nor the intramural soccer field, the rathskellar; certainly not Jessica—with one glaring exception and the odd phone conversation or drive-by, Dean hadn't been _any_ part of Sam's college life, until the very, very end. So Sam felt no guilt about not answering his brother's calls, choosing instead to quietly retrace the steps he'd once made here, a spirit echoing the events of a past life that no longer existed.

He drifted along the pathways and corridors, past knots of chattering collegians, solitary students hurrying to class or coffee, couples enjoying a bright spring day in the tender throes of young love. He had wondered distantly if he might see someone he knew, but the people he passed were all strangers to him, and it seemed as though they didn't see him at all. Maybe they didn't, Sam thought, because he was no longer a part of the picture; he no longer belonged. Maybe he never really had.

He saved the hardest for last, and because he knew it would be hardest, and knew it would be last, he went back to the Impala first. Once his final task was accomplished, he could drive away quickly, and never look back.

The route he drove by rote took him past what had once been _their _restaurant. Buonfonte's was a little Italian place with nothing much in the way of ambience other than the requisite red-checked tablecloths and Chianti-bottle candlesticks, but the chef made an awesome scampi, and Jess had once vowed only to die if she could take some of it with her.

Sam had taken her there on their first official date, and afterward the young couple had celebrated all their milestones at Buonfonte's: birthdays, the end of finals, moving in together, Sam's LSAT scores.

It was where he had planned to propose to her, of course, when the time came.

Except that now it was gone.

Sam slowed the car, coming to a stop in mid-street and hunching over the steering wheel to peer in disbelief out the side window at the sports bar now occupying the restaurant's old space. Neon signs advertising a variety of beers lit the windows; an electric orange poster board announced happy hour daily from four to six, with well-drink prices slashed.

Maybe he should have expected it, but somehow—his lip curled with a bitter smile. Somehow he'd thought they'd always have Buonfonte's.

There was a honk behind him, and he startled, then shifted gears and continued up the street, taking a left at the stoplight and driving three more blocks down a residential street until he came to the building where he and Jess…

Where he and Jess…

Where Jess…

Sam allowed himself to leave the thought unfinished. Instead, he pulled in next to the fire hydrant (and a tip of the hat to _that_ irony, he decided mirthlessly) and got out, surveying the street, the repair job done on their old apartment after that awful night.

His cell buzzed again, but he ignored it, opening the car door with a squeal and climbing out. Taking a deep breath, he crossed the sidewalk and went up the steps onto the porch, fingers brushing past the row of mailboxes, stumbling momentarily on the one that had been theirs. He didn't look to see the new name.

Up the stairs, then, fourth riser in the second flight still creaking like always, and down the hall. It was quiet behind some doors as he passed, but as he neared their old place, he could hear rap music coming from inside, heavy bass pounding. Even at late morning, he could smell the unmistakable aroma of pot wafting from the front room. A number of stickers papered the door, advertising radio stations and skateboarding, and someone had carved "Fuck You Jason" into the upper panel.

And that was the end of it.

Eyes on the door for what he knew would be the last time, Sam paused, then nodded shortly to himself before he turned and walked away. There was no need to look back, ever again.

-:- -:- -:-

He was back on the highway when his phone buzzed, and this time he picked up.

"_Where the hell's my car?"_ Dean growled angrily, and Sam felt a smile tug at his mouth.

"It's with me."

"_Where the hell are _you_?"_

Despite his tone, Sam could hear the concern and relief in his brother's voice; knew what Dean was really asking: _Sammy, are you okay? _

Or perhaps, _Is it really you? _It hadn't been all that long ago that Dean had woken to find Sam gone, taken by a demon who had used him viciously. Most of that fallout was over, but how long would it be before either one of them truly forgot?

Sam took a long breath. "I'm on my way back, Dean; I'll see you in a couple of hours. There was something I needed to do."

If Dean had been no part of Sam's Stanford life, he was certainly the most important part of Sam's life now. They'd hit plenty of rough patches since his brother had come for him that Halloween night, and God only knew what lay ahead of them, but of one thing Sam was certain: he and Dean were in it together for the long haul.

There was a brief silence on the other end, and Sam believed he could actually hear Dean thinking, sorting through all the possibilities of what Sam might have needed to do without telling his older brother first.

Smile broadening, Sam moved the Impala into the fast lane and picked up speed. "Dean, I'm on my way home. I'm gonna swing by the mine and pick up our pay from Steve, and I'll see you soon."

He ended the call, then brought up the fresh contact on the display screen and thumbed the button, settling himself more comfortably into the driver's seat while he waited.

"Hey, Erica—it's Sam," he said when she answered. "Listen, once you're done up in Rattlesnake this afternoon, would you like to go to dinner?"

-:- -:- -:-

_TBC. Thanks for reading! Comments are welcomed._


	8. Chapter 8

_Thank you! Thank you all for reading! My grin goes all the way from __this__ side (points left) clear over to __this__ side (points right). There is certainly more ahead for the Winchesters, and I'm very grateful that you're here for it, too._

_For my own sense of honor, I have to tell you that most of this chapter was written months ago—back in October, I think. Those of you keeping up with S4 will understand my slight dismay when you read; I promise it won't matter for the rest of you. There are __no__ spoilers here._

_This chapter is heavily Dean-centric, but Sam's turn is coming! Be patient, casammy—tienes que continuar leyendo, por favor. You, too, masondixon—explanations are forthcoming. After all, there are still several chapters left to go._

_mirandler, please feel free to put together a soundtrack!_

**Rush**

**Chapter Eight**

Dean awoke with a start, lying on his side with his face mashed into the pillow, a feeling in his gut that something wasn't right. The hotel was completely quiet, not even noise from the street filtering in, although judging from the sunlight in the room, it was mid- morning.

There was a smell, though, vague and undefined, teasing the air around him. Flowers? His fingers crept beneath the pillow and curled around the hilt of his knife, but the aroma, whatever it was, faded into nothingness, leaving him to doubt whether it had actually existed.

The warmth of the bedclothes and the waning effects of the oxycodone he'd taken after they'd finished with Bull Clancy lured Dean back down toward sleep, and he nearly succumbed—may have, even, although he thought not, because suddenly he was sitting straight up, heart pounding, the cat's moaning yowl reverberating around him. It seemed interminable, the sound rising and falling until finally he realized it wasn't a cat at all, but a young child crying piteously somewhere outside the room.

"Hey!" Dean called out. "Wren! Wren Markham! Is that you?"

The crying continued, heartbreaking in its intensity, and Dean stayed put, eyes flying to all corners in case something manifested. But there was only the sound of the child's mournful sobbing, first near, then distant, and finally fading suddenly away.

After a moment, Dean tossed back the covers, about to swing his legs over the side of the bed when he remembered his knee, catching sight of the swollen, bruised flesh, feeling the pulsing throb deep within it. Where the hell had he put that brace?

For that matter, where the hell was his brother?

"Sam?"

No answer.

Dean leaned over the side of the bed and found the brace he'd kicked under it the night before, discarded the idea of donning it and angled himself upright and onto his feet, bare-chested and in his boxers.

"Sammy?"

Still nothing, and Dean felt his heart begin to pound again.

_This was how it had started in Texas, Sam just vanishing without a trace, hijacked by that bitch Meg._ From where he stood, Dean could see the traces of yellow dust on the hardwood floor and woven rug of the suite, something large and foreign lodging in his throat, choking him. _Sulfur—it was sulfur, he had known it all along! Damn it, Sammy!_

He turned quickly to the nightstand, grabbing for his cell phone on the charger, noticing at once that the car keys were gone. Fuckfuckfuck not again—no, not again!

But there was a note in his brother's sloppy hand: _Gone a few hours._

Dean stopped short, panic stalling in its sudden rise. He snapped open the cell and made the connection, but the call went straight to voice-mail on Sam's end.

"Where are you?" Dean asked gruffly, the worry unmistakably thick in each word. "Call me." Then he disconnected, only to find a message from Sam waiting for him.

"_Hey, man_," his brother's voice came through clearly, casually, not sounding possessed or demonic at all. "_You up? I spoke to Steve, and he's doing okay, but I couldn't really get into the details of last night with him. Sounded like the sheriff was there when I called—maybe you can talk with him. Listen, I'm gonna be gone for a little while today. See you later_."

Fuck!

Dean tried Sam's number again, but when the call still went to voice-mail, he closed the phone and tossed it on the bed with an angry flick of his wrist. Damn it. He hated being left behind, Sam out doing God knew what—

Erica.

He remembered her suddenly, and Dean felt the tension begin to drain from his body. _Well, Sammy, you sly dog_, he thought with a grin, no longer worried about what Sam might be doing. Make that _who_.

He limped into the bathroom and twisted the water on in the shower, stripping out of his boxers and stepping carefully into the hot spray.

Not to be creepy about it, but it was actually a hell of a lot nicer to think that Sam was off doing lascivious things with Erica, than to imagine any alternatives. For one thing, it allowed Dean to imagine _himself_ doing lascivious things with Grace—or vice versa—and after a thorough soap-and-rinse, he braced himself against the shower wall to clean his pipes, right hand quick and efficient. He finished with a deep, satisfied groan, warm water washing away the aftermath and leaving him both refreshed and pleasantly drained.

Getting his sock on without bending his bum knee was a challenge that involved the toes of his left foot, a coat-hanger and some judicious swearing, but the boot actually wasn't so hard. Once he was dressed, Dean called Steve to check in on him, now that Bull Clancy wouldn't be making any more unannounced visits.

"_I'm doing great_," Steve said, broad relief evident in his voice. "_Man, there's just good news all around. My insurance guy is here, and it looks like most of the damage is going to be covered, plus the state inspector said she's coming back up today with the initial safety report—Dean, I think this is turning out all right, after all_."

"Glad to hear it, man," Dean replied sincerely. Guy bounced back fast, that was for damn sure. "Hey, Steve, did Sam happen to mention what he was doing this morning?"

"_Nope. Just said he was on the road, and that he expected to be at the mine this afternoon when the safety report comes_."

"Yeah, okay. See you later, then."

Dean tried Sam for the third time and still got voice-mail. Just as he was about to leave another message, he smelled the wafting aroma of flowers again. Then there was a hesitant tap on the suite door.

_Knock_.

Dean froze, eyes pinned fiercely to the door as though they could bore a hole right through it. Whoever was on the other side, it was not Sam, and it clearly wasn't Steve, nor did he think it was Grace.

"Who's there?" he called, eyes flicking to the weapons bag by the settee.

_Knock_.

He stepped carefully backward until he could feel the duffel against the side of his foot, then leaned down slowly and withdrew the shotgun, gaze still on the door.

_Knock. _

He rummaged one-handed in the bag, came up with the salt rounds and rammed them home, jacking the action closed. Then he set his jaw and limped determinedly to the door, yanking it open and raising the gun to his shoulder in one swift move.

"What?" he snapped.

Naturally, the hallway was empty.

As Dean stepped cautiously out of the suite, he heard piano music from the lobby, a discordant glissando as though a cat had run across the keyboard.

"This is not funny!" he yelled in aggravation, hesitating only a few moments to snatch up his knee-brace and strap it on quickly before moving down the hall toward the lobby.

He could have sworn he heard the rustle of skirts on the stairway, the quick patter of footsteps flying upward, and he knew then that he was being lured.

Pausing at the landing, Dean surveyed the staircase with a grimace. Then he took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and charged.

With the brace, his ascent was ugly, noisy and uncoordinated. Dean was somehow surprised when he reached the second floor without incident, his knee actually feeling pretty okay. As his breathing eased, he listened for any sound from the hallway, but all was silent.

"Delilah!" he called hoarsely. "If you're gonna invite a man upstairs with you, you should at least have the courtesy to show yourself! That's only polite, when company's coming."

It wasn't like he was expecting an answer, of course; truth was, he was talking more to calm his nerves than to engage a ghost in conversation. Whatever it was she wanted from him, it couldn't be good—which seemed fair, since he had every intention of blasting the shit out of her with the salt-gun.

"I'm runnin' late for breakfast, so I won't be stayin' long," he warned.

The hair on the back of his neck prickled, and Dean swallowed hard, shifting slightly to take the weight off his bad leg. He hadn't rounded the corner yet, couldn't see down the hall, but from the far end he heard the faint creak of a door.

He closed his eyes for just a moment, the memory of the knife plunging into his heart still crisp and shocking. Then he inhaled sharply and stepped into the corridor. Sure enough, he could see that the door to Delilah Reardon's room, far at the other end, was slightly ajar.

"Ready or not," he murmured to himself, then strode the best he could down the hall.

It seemed like a hell of a long way to walk, and not just because of the brace on his knee.

_He and Sam didn't always see eye to eye on things, but having his brother at his back again was a comfort he couldn't deny._

_Dean knew he was a skilled hunter—better than skilled, in all modesty—but there were too many ways for things to go FUBAR when you hunted solo. Having Sam as wingman took a load off Dean's mind. That, and it was just damn good to have the kid back where he belonged. Without him? Hell, that just wasn't even worth considering anymore._

The room was silent and seemed undisturbed, judging by what little he could see through the narrow slot between door and jamb. Dean pulled the shotgun tighter to his shoulder and elbowed the door open, stepping inside quickly.

If anything else had been there, it was gone now.

"Delilah?" he called cautiously, eyes resting momentarily on the little table, where both chairs had been pulled out in open invitation.

Dean turned a slow three-sixty, but nothing else seemed amiss. Turning back to the table, set with polished silverware and empty, gleaming china plates, he huffed a laugh.

"Oh, sweetheart," he said. "You want my company, you're gonna have to feed me better than that."

Stepping into the elevator a few moments later felt somehow like a small victory. Still, when he'd stuffed the shotgun back into the duffel and locked The Baron's front door behind him, about to set out for breakfast—lunch, really—Dean thought he could hear the faint sobs of a broken-hearted child, and that was no victory at all.

-:- -:- -:-

There was a small school bus parked down Yankee Street when he limped across, two dozen or so kids playing beneath the big oak, and he grinned. Looked like Grace was going to have her hands full again this afternoon.

He picked the window table at the Scotchbroom, angling himself uncomfortably into the booth, wanting a clear view of the street. Well, of the museum, anyway. Turned out he had a clear view of pretty much everything in downtown Rattlesnake—at least the part on the north side of the main drag. By leaning, he could see Eureka from the post office all the way back up to The Baron's tall veranda.

His knee felt better today, sore but not hurting, really, despite the workout it had gotten, and Dean toyed with the idea of discarding the brace, or at least loosening it to give himself more flexibility.

Thing was, his brother would kill him if he screwed his leg up again, and if Sam didn't, some fugly definitely would. It galled him, but Dean left the brace alone.

He had just started on the second half of his sandwich when the school-kids trooped by with their adult escort on the opposite side of the street. They were older than the ones from yesterday—third- or fourth-graders, maybe, the girls already growing taller than the boys—and the whole height thing made him think about Sam again.

Dean pulled the cell from his pocket and placed the call, snapping the phone shut impatiently when he immediately got voicemail.

But then Grace came out onto the sidewalk to welcome the kids to the museum, and the twist of his mouth became a wide smile.

She looked like a Chinese princess in her black satin pants and ruby-red long-sleeved coat. Her hair was up in some sort of elaborate design that still managed to look soft and appealing, and suddenly Dean wanted it in his hands again, feeling it slide against his face, against his body.

"Get you anything else, sweetie?"

_Crap!_

He cleared his throat, smiling up at the waitress in her Forty-Niner get-up, rearranging himself beneath the tabletop so she wouldn't see his, uh, discomfort.

"Slice of rhubarb pie and the check, please."

"Comin' right up!"

Not any more, he was relieved to realize, and Dean sat back more comfortably in the booth, opening the phone again and hitting the redial button. This time, Sam picked up, and Dean felt the relief rush through him, loosening muscles he hadn't known were tense.

"Where the hell's my car?" he barked anyway, and felt more than heard the affection in Sam's response.

"_It's with me."_

"Where the hell are _you_?"

He couldn't help the tone, although he knew that sooner or later he had to get over the whole possession thing, the nasty cards Meg had dealt them. He couldn't expect Sammy to stay in eyeshot all the time, no matter how much Dean wanted it that way. Needed it. Wasn't anybody's fault, what had happened, but _damn_, nearly losing Sam like that? Not an experience Dean ever cared to repeat.

"_I'm on my way back, Dean; I'll see you in a couple of hours. There was something I needed to do."_

The waitress came by with his pie and the bill, and Dean stared unseeingly at them while he pondered what Sam might mean—it wasn't Erica, he was really pretty sure, but he and his brother were being open and honest with each other these days, weren't they? For the most part? So what the hell could—

"_Dean, I'm on my way home. I'm gonna swing by the mine and pick up our pay from Steve, and I'll see you soon."_

Sam ended the call, and Dean dropped the hand with the cell down onto the table beside his pie, frowning as he traded phone for fork and cut out a large bite. Then the door of the museum opened again and Grace led her convoy of students and teachers next door to the joss house, unlocking it and allowing the school-group to precede her inside.

Dean watched idly, chewing thoughtfully on a mouthful of passable rhubarb, stewing about Sam, really effing unhappy that the boy was off running around the country without his big brother, without even saying where he was or what he was doing.

_So not cool, Sammy_.

He paid his tab, realizing as he pulled himself out of the booth that the brace on his bad leg made him sit funny, torquing his back. Worked out a knot with two prodding fingers and limped out to the sidewalk, wondering what kind of game-plan to pursue now that they'd sent Bull Clancy off to the Great Beyond. What to do until Sam got back from wherever.

And then there was a sudden cacophony of high-pitched screams from the joss house, the door of the temple bursting open and a stream of shrieking children spilling out, tripping over one another, shoving in their haste to escape. Dean saw one little boy go down amidst the rush, causing a minor pile-up until the adults emerged, frantically trying to quell the panic.

From his vantage, it didn't seem to Dean that the adults were any calmer than the kids.

"What the--?"

He crossed the street quickly, hurrying down the sidewalk past the museum, looking for Grace in the turmoil.

At least a half-dozen of the kids were crying as he reached them, and some of the chaperones didn't seem much better off. From the babble of shrill voices, he heard "ghost" more than once, and "hanging guy," and "scary." A couple of "awesomes," too, and Dean felt the smile pull on his mouth. Nobody appeared to be really hurt, anyway, and one or two of the students seemed upset because they'd missed whatever it was that had gone down. The majority of them, though, looked scared spitless.

Then he saw Grace, kneeling beside a tiny group of grade-schoolers, her voice soothing as she wiped away tears from the cheeks of one young girl.

"I think we all let our imaginations run away with us, don't you?" she asked, and most of the kids around her nodded reluctantly. "I think we were just jumping at shadows."

"Hey," Dean said quietly, and Grace glanced quickly up at him. She was pale, obviously affected by whatever had happened in the joss house, but she offered a wan smile and reached out a hand to him, squeezing his fingers tightly when he took it.

After a few more moments of milling, order was mostly restored when one of the adults put a whistle to her lips and blew it loudly.

"All right, boys and girls! We'll certainly have plenty to write about in our journals once we get back to school, won't we? My class, please assemble right here on my right, and Mr. Weaver's class, please take five steps down to my left—Gerald, I'm watching you! Let's go, everyone. Don't forget to tell Miss Xiuying how much you enjoyed your visit!"

A hasty head-count ensured that all were present, and in no time at all the students were marching back down the sidewalk toward Yankee Street and their waiting bus, some already chattering excitedly, others much more subdued.

"I didn't see _any_thing!" one little girl harrumphed, scowling darkly as she passed by Dean and Grace, and Dean lifted his eyebrows at her.

Then he saw the boy behind her, the one who'd fallen—just a little guy, curly brown hair stuck in places to his sweaty brow, skin blanched with fright but for the bright spots of pink in his cheeks, his light hazel eyes wide and haunted as he gazed up at Dean in silent anguish. Dean felt his breath catch in his throat, the kid looked so much like Sammy had at that age.

"Hey," he said, stopping the boy with just a word and a quick look at the two chaperones bringing up the rear of the line. They paused, too, and although he couldn't kneel with the brace on his leg, Dean bent over as best he could, coming to eye-level with the boy and placing a warm hand on his shoulder. "You doin' all right, champ?"

It had always been Dean who had comforted young Sam when they were kids, in the years before Sammy's teenage angst had made him perpetually ill-tempered, and sometimes even then. Throughout their childhood, Dean had learned all the tricks to soothing his little brother, amassing a collection of remedies for everything from upset stomachs to skinned knees, from crushed hopes to full-blown night terrors.

He remembered vividly the day Sammy had finally learned the truth about the things in the dark—remembered it like it was yesterday, Sam angry and afraid and defiant in his steadfast denial. It wasn't real, it couldn't be real, _please Dean don't let it be real!_ Hurt and furious that life had played him, somehow; his father breaking faith and his brother—the one who'd always sworn to watch out for him, _always, Dean!—_his brother betraying him, like Judas. For that, Dean had had no cure, just like he didn't have one now for this poor kid who'd obviously just witnessed something he'd never expected or wanted to see.

But the hunter had to try.

"My name's Dean," he said quietly. "What's yours?"

He had to lean in closer so he could hear when the boy whispered back.

"Andrew."

"Okay, Andrew, listen to me."

_God, he'd have given anything that terrible day to spare Sammy from the truth, let him hang on to his innocence just a little bit longer. The fact that this kid wasn't his younger brother didn't make today any easier. _

Dean cleared his throat. "Andrew, I don't know what you saw in there, what you think happened, but you listen to me now. Are you listening?"

He squeezed the boy's shoulder just a little, gave him a tiny shake, and the kid nodded, his eyes tracking hesitantly to Dean's.

Dean nodded, too.

"That's good. Now, Andrew, did you see something inside there that you didn't understand? No? Yeah? Okay, but you saw _something_, right? And was it something that made you feel afraid, because you didn't know what it was?"

"A ghost," came the whispered response. "It wanted to hurt Mr. Weaver."

Without releasing his hold on the boy's shoulder, Dean wiped a hand quickly over his mouth, then straightened up and gave Grace a tilt of his head, a meaningful glance. She nodded shortly, drawing the two chaperones away with her, starting a soft conversation with them about something Dean couldn't make out.

He loosened the mechanism on the brace, testing his knee cautiously before he bent down, balancing a little against the boy whose swimming eyes were now locked on his.

"Andrew," Dean began uncertainly, but the boy shook his head in despair, his lower lip quivering.

"It doesn't matter what you say. It was a ghost, and it was bad, and it was _real_."

His face crumpled then, tears falling freely down his rosy cheeks, the world as he'd known it now changed forever. With a choked cry, Andrew flung himself into Dean's surprised embrace, nearly overbalancing them both as he hugged Dean tight and cried against his shoulder.

"Shh, shhh," Dean soothed, ignoring the concerned looks from Grace and the chaperones by closing his eyes and holding the little boy to him until the tears subsided. "Hush now. I know. I know. It's gonna be okay, Andrew. I'm not gonna lie to you—I know it was real, and I'm very sorry. But I want you to believe me when I tell you this. That thing in there? I promise you that I will take care of it, and you will never have to worry about it ever again. You hear me? It's gonna be okay. I promise you that."

"But it wanted to be mean! How can you do it?" The words were muffled against his shirt, almost inaudible, and Dean opened his eyes, flicking them at Grace standing several feet away, keeping his voice low so their conversation was private.

"I can do it because I'm a hunter, Andrew, and what you saw? That's the kind of thing I hunt. I know what I have to do, and exactly how to do it. I'm good at it, Andrew. I'm _good_ at what I do, and when I make a promise, I keep it."

After a moment, Andrew drew back, eyes still haunted as they searched Dean's face.

"You believe me that I saw a ghost?" he asked softly, running a sleeve under his nose, glancing at the chaperones standing nearby.

Dean nodded. "I do, and I'm gonna take care of it. Do you believe _me_?"

He met the boy's assessing gaze openly, and finally the grade-schooler nodded.

"I don't have to be afraid?" There was such hope in Andrew's voice that for a moment Dean wasn't sure he'd be able to answer.

_Oh, God, Andrew—those evil sonsofbitches are everywhere, waiting to steal your family, your life; take away everything you care about and turn it all to ashes…_

"No, you don't," Dean said at last. "You don't have to be afraid of that thing for one more minute."

"You're going to kill it."

"That's exactly what I'm going to do."

There was another long pause while Andrew weighed the hunter's words, and then he gave a small sigh of relief.

"Good," he said, and the corner of Dean's mouth twitched.

"All right, then. That mean ghost is going _down_," he said, raising a hand and trying for a smile on the tear-streaked face in front of him. "Five up high, Andrew."

The boy dashed a hand across his cheeks, sniffing, then swatted Dean's palm with the same damp hand. Dean grinned and ruffled his hair, then pushed off Andrew's shoulders, straightening with a groan.

"Ladies," he said to the chaperones, "Looks like you're going to have to hustle to catch up with the rest of your group. Andrew, you see to it that they make it back to the bus safely now, you hear me?"

Andrew's tentative smile grew bolder as the boy nodded. "I will," he promised, collecting the adults with a toss of his head and starting them down the sidewalk in the direction of Yankee Street. "'Bye, Dean."

But one of the chaperones lingered another moment as Grace joined Dean, the curator's hand at his elbow, offering support while he re-locked the knee-brace.

"You get that a lot?" the chaperone asked, glancing past them into the darkness of the joss house.

Grace's reply was studied but courteous. "Some days are more interesting than others. Thank you for coming."

-:- -:- -:-

When he straightened again, she took Dean's hand, and he felt her fingers trembling in his own.

"Grace—" he began, but she shook her head.

"Not here, please. I need to sit down."

With the chaperone hurrying to re-join the school group, Dean escorted Grace quickly back to the museum, parking her on the loveseat and pulling up a chair so he could watch her face while she told him what had happened. It took her a moment to collect her thoughts.

"One of the teachers was telling the boys and girls about Katie Kaheny," she began precisely, her back straight, hands folded primly in her lap. She was watching them carefully, as though they might suddenly fly away. "He mentioned that Katie had been about the same age they are when she was murdered, and that her killer had come to the temple often, and that the town had lynched him. Mr. Weaver was teasing them, you know, trying to scare them a little. To give them a thrill, I think, but he laid it on a little thick and the kids were nervous, even though they loved the scariness of it."

Her voice fell away, and for a moment Grace dropped her head, composing herself.

"Then there was a noise," she began again, before petering out abruptly. This time, Dean leaned forward and placed a hand over hers.

"Grace?"

She raised troubled eyes to him. "I've never heard anything like it, Junjei. It was—mean, and evil—vicious-sounding, you know? I heard it myself, and I swear I _saw_ someone suddenly standing behind Mr. Weaver. Someone Chinese, with a queue, and robes like mine, only dark."

Now she was shaking all over, and Dean shifted to the loveseat beside her, putting an arm around her as she struggled to comprehend what she had seen and heard.

"Then what?" he asked, keeping his voice soft although he could feel his anger rising.

Grace gave a puff of a mirthless laugh. "Whatever it was that I saw, it made a face, and it...it kind of gestured with its hands and arms, like--oh, I don't know how to describe it, but I thought it was going to hurt Mr. Weaver. Someone screamed. It might have been me—I don't know. Then everyone was screaming and running, and the figure disappeared. Dean, I—"

He held her closer, bending to catch her downcast eyes, see the tears sparkling there. She wiped a hand across her cheek and shook her head.

"I think it was my great-grandfather," she said, the words little more than air. "Dean, I think that I saw Quon-Jin Chin."

-:- -:- -:-

The front door of The Baron was locked when Sam tried it, and Dean had the only key. If he knocked, his brother might not hear; he couldn't call, either, because he'd used the last of his cell's charge confirming dinner with Erica, so his phone was dead.

Vexed, Sam put his hands on his hips and turned until he was facing the street, glancing casually across and down Eureka to see who might be watching. Finding no one on the sidewalks at mid-afternoon, he reached into a pocket and removed the kit where he kept the lock-picks, easily extracting the right tool and slipping it into the key-hole. Two twists and a jiggle, and the door snicked open.

Sam put the kit away and stepped inside quietly. If Dean was here, he was supposed to be researching their next gig; more often than not, that meant he was napping, and maybe Sam could sneak up on him—surprise him a little, get his heart pumping.

The young hunter pushed the door closed and stepped softly across the lobby toward the back hall, noting again what a great job the Markhams had done making the place seem authentic, restoring it to what was ostensibly its former glory. It was quiet, now, but somehow the old hotel didn't feel quite empty, and if he were prone to imagination, Sam thought he'd be able to picture the people who had made The Baron their home or way-station, back in Rattlesnake's heyday—the miners and madams, business tycoons, thrill-seekers and those just passing through—bringing the place to life.

He tiptoed the best he could down the hallway, leaning an ear against the door of their suite but hearing nothing. No TV, no snoring…he turned the handle cautiously, then threw the door open, stepping inside with a bold grin which faded as soon as he saw that the room was vacant.

_Oh, well._

He plugged his cell phone into the charger next to Dean's bottle of OxyContin, then made for the bathroom, kicking aside a pile of damp towels on the floor so that he could get to the sink. He'd had a shower in the dark hours of the morning, right after they'd gotten in from the salt-and-burn, but a pass of his hand over his chin told Sam he could use a quick shave.

He unzipped the bag that held his toiletries, digging inside for the electric razor, figuring when he couldn't find it that his brother had borrowed it again without asking.

"Damn it, Dean!" he said without much heat, but his voice was loud inside the otherwise-empty suite.

From the floor above him came a sudden thump, the kind of light thud a cat might make jumping down from a table or a bookcase.

Sam froze for just a moment, catching his own eyes in the mirror over the sink. Then he moved swiftly out of the bathroom and through the suite, snagging the Taurus from the back of his jeans as he went.

He was down the hallway in moments, through the lobby and up the stairs moments later. Now the feeling inside The Baron seemed almost menacing, and as Sam hit the second-floor landing and sidled along the wall to the hallway, he called out loudly.

"Who's there?"

There was no answer, of course, and no further sound from anywhere. Sam drew in a deep breath, checking the safety on his gun as he stepped into the corridor.

"Dean? You up here? You better speak up now, man."

But it wasn't Dean, Sam knew. There was a sense of _something_ hiding just out of eyeshot, and the young hunter briefly considered heading back downstairs to pick up some salt to go with the flask of holy water in his jacket pocket. Instead, he walked cautiously down the hall, stopping at each door to test the handle, finding each room locked until he reached the last one.

_Delilah Reardon's room._

Sam paused, listening intently, feeling beyond knowing that something was holding its breath just on the other side of the door.

"If you're there," he said, voice rough with threat, "I'm coming in."

The gun was in his right hand, up by his ear, and he grasped the door-handle firmly with his left.

It was locked.

Sam blinked, certain that someone was inside; had somehow gotten into the hotel and made their way up to Delilah's room, and…

He raised his brows, feeling his forehead wrinkle.

_Right?_

He listened again, but the whole atmosphere was different now, and he was starting to feel a little foolish, particularly when he rapped his knuckles against the door's upper panel, seeking permission to enter.

"Hello?"

Again, there was no answer. No one on the other side hiding, holding his or her breath. No sound at all except for Sam's own aggravated huff. _Buildings made noises, whether they were new or old..._

He jiggled the door-handle twice more, to be certain, then checked the safety on the Taurus again and tucked it back into his jeans, heading quickly downstairs and back to the suite. He was running late now, with no time to shave even if Dean hadn't swiped the razor, but he slapped on some cologne before grabbing his cell out of the charger. Battery was still low, but it would have to do.

Sam made sure The Baron's front door was locked behind him, then slid into the Impala, starting it up and letting the engine idle while he waited for a small school-bus loaded with a couple dozen kids and a handful of adults to pass by. Then he turned north on Cedar and headed for the mine.

-:- -:- -:-

It took a while for Grace to stop trembling, but when she did, Dean had to ask.

"Could it be the kids? Attracting Quon-Jin, I mean. I hate to say this about someone from your family, but he _did_ kill a little girl. Think about it—class was here yesterday when that one kid said she saw some guy over in the corner, right next door to the joss house; then today—"

The curator shuddered. "That would be awful, but it makes some sense."

"Yeah." _Goddamn freakin' pedophile ghost needed to go, right now_, Dean thought, then pressed a quick kiss into Grace's hair. "Why did he have a pool-stick?"

She raised her face to his, puzzled. "A pool-stick?"

"Yeah. You said the man you saw had a cue in his hands."

He wouldn't have thought it possible, under the circumstances, but Grace giggled, a hand flying to her mouth to suppress the tiny sound.

"I'm sorry," she murmured, but he laughed, too, at her unexpected reaction, and that made it all right.

"What's funny?"

"How we say one thing, and people hear another. I meant that he wore his hair in a pigtail, not that he had a pool-stick. The words just sound the same."

"Ah." Dean let his eyes travel to the picture on the far wall, the one of Quon-Jin's hanging, thinking for a moment. "After they lynched your great-granddaddy, what happened to the body?"

Her response was instant and matter-of-fact, if short on detail. "It was desecrated, and then the mob burned it. The race-riot started almost right away."

"They burned all of him?"

Grace pulled away from him, the puzzled frown back on her face. "What do you mean?"

Dean hoisted himself off the loveseat and crossed the room to the image on the wall. "Take a good look, Grace. What's missing from this picture?"

She joined him, examining the print closely, not getting it until he tapped a finger on Quon-Jin's head.

"Where's his queue?" Dean asked succinctly, only a touch of emphasis on the last word.

Grace gave a tiny gasp of surprise as she peered at the dark, uneven tent of chin-length hair obscuring the hanged man's face. "I always thought that was a hood! Junjei, they cut off his pigtail to dishonor him!"

"So where'd it go? Grace, I know this doesn't make a lick of sense, but there's a reason I'm asking. The only way Quon-Jin can still be here is if there's something holding him here. Most likely, it's something physical, some part of him. You said they burned his body, but what about that hair, huh? Is it possible—"

Her eyes widened suddenly. "Yes! Oh, that makes _perfect_ sense! A note in my great-grandmother's diary said that they took his remains to the temple, but I never understood that—if they burned his body, how could there possibly be any remains? But…oh."

As quickly as it had risen, her voice dropped suddenly. "I've spent my whole life in the shadow of that temple, Dean. If Quon-Jin's queue were there, I would have known."

Dean shook his head, unwilling to surrender. "It's there, all right," he said with certainty. "Without his queue, ol' Q-J wouldn't still be hangin' around."

He blinked at the unintended pun, then rushed past it, hoping she hadn't noticed.

"My guess is that it's buried in the cellar somewhere. Grace, give me the keys."

"What?"

"Give me the keys to the joss house, and don't go in there again until I tell you."

"Why?" she asked, big-eyed. "What are you going to do?"

Dean stared coolly at the picture once more, eyes flicking over it, taking in every detail.

"I'm going to end your ancestor," he told her. "He won't be scaring anybody any more."

-:- -:- -:-

Dean was pretty positive that Grace wouldn't have given him the keys at all if she hadn't still been in shock from what she'd seen in the Chinese temple. She sure as hell wouldn't have let him take the blunt-nosed shovel from the display of antique mining tools, so he didn't ask, didn't order, just picked it up and took it with him when he headed out the museum door.

"Oh!" she said when she saw what he held, but her protest died unspoken.

"Stay put," he directed. "I mean it."

Dean hobbled back to the joss house, tossing the shovel inside and then locking the solid iron outer door from the sidewalk before heading up the street again toward The Baron. Grace was at the window watching him, and he raised an admonishing finger at her, mouthing "Stay!" as he passed by. She nodded once, but the frown on her face was a clear indication of her growing concern.

Sam had the Impala, of course, and most of their arsenal with it, but the weapons duffel was still at the hotel. Marching determinedly up Eureka, Dean laid his plans as he went.

They were simple enough, the same plans he'd made a thousand or maybe a hundred thousand times before—_Kill that evil sonofabitch_. Just because it wasn't creative didn't mean it wasn't going to work. Added benefit? He was going to enjoy doing it.

He wrenched open The Baron's front door, and there was a series of thumps on the staircase as he strode through the lobby, the sounds of someone ascending quickly at his unexpected entrance. Although no one was there, Dean spoke anyway, jaw set as he passed the landing and the reception desk.

"I don't have time for you right now, sweetheart, but maybe later—after I get rid of your ghost-buddy Quon-Jin."

The thumping stopped, or maybe he just didn't hear it any more as he limped quickly to the suite and found the weapons duffel, finally taking a moment to curse at the renewed ache in his leg, leaning heavily against the wall to ease the stress on his knee.

After a few seconds, he grabbed up the salt-gun and a fistful of extra rounds, stuffing everything into his jacket, adding a vial of holy water to his pocket for good measure. Then he slammed the suite door behind him and headed back out through the lobby.

"Stay out of my room!" Dean barked in the direction of the staircase, and then he was out on Eureka Street again, on his way to the joss house.

Grace was on the sidewalk this time, watching as he hobbled toward her, and one look at his face was all it took to make her step back into the museum doorway.

"I'll let you know when it's safe," he told her sternly, not slowing.

"Dean—" she started, subsiding quickly when his scowl darkened. "Be careful."

He unlocked the outer door and entered the stone building cautiously, swinging the heavy painted iron closed behind him. There was no interior lock, and Dean figured maybe that had something to do with the joss house now being a historical exhibit as well as a working temple. He chewed briefly on his lower lip as he withdrew the shotgun from inside his jacket, racking in a load, suddenly wondering how he was going to keep tourists from wandering in by accident while he took care of business.

Or Grace, for that matter, which would be no accident.

After a moment he turned to the altar, keeping an eye out for any sign of Quon-Jin Chin's spirit, but the EMF meter had stayed quiet and the temperature pleasant. He was surprised but pleased to see the stub of red candle sitting in a lily-shaped bowl amongst the items offered to honor the Chin family's ancestors; Dean grabbed it up, then limped swiftly back to the front of the joss house.

He put the salt-gun down on one of the little tables and removed an educational placard—something about the Chinese who'd worked the mines and the railroads back in the day—from its display stand. He dropped the laminated poster-board face-down beside the gun, working quickly with the candle stub in one hand and his lighter in the other.

_Nice!_

He waved a hand over the results to cool the wax before flipping over the placard and melting what little remained of the candle stub into a small pool on the front. Then Dean hurried to the exterior door, swinging it open.

He found himself unexpectedly face to face with a trio of startled white-haired women, wearing casual clothes and toting cameras. They had clearly been preparing to come inside.

"Oh!" said the one with the tour-book in her hand, her drawl evident even in the single word. "Is it open? It doesn't look open. Can we go in?"

Dean flashed her a very fake smile as he slapped the front of the placard onto the front of the iron door, holding it there until the softened wax had a chance to harden completely.

When he removed his hand and the placard stayed put, the phony smile became real.

"Sorry, ladies," he said, tapping a finger against the sign he'd just made and posted, probably breaking all sorts of laws about desecrating state-owned buildings, not to mention historic temples. "Chinese holiday today—we're _closed_."

Then Dean stepped back inside, pulling the door shut behind him.

He picked up the shotgun again and waited another thirty seconds while the tourists dithered outside, talking about getting something to drink, then heading for Nevada City. Finally they moved on, and Dean took a deep breath, moving to the center of the room, facing the altar.

"Quon-Jin Chin!" he shouted. "I'm here for you!"

-:- -:- -:-

_TBC. Thanks for reading! Comments are welcomed._

_A/N: When my parents built our home in the wooded foothills of the Sierra Nevada, the surrounding area was quite undeveloped, with only a few other families in the general vicinity, and none within shouting distance. It's different now, and with some time having passed, my mother recently recalled how quiet it had been in those days, particularly when we kids were off at school and she had the house—the whole neighborhood, really—to herself. _

"_I'm pretty sure Indians lived here once," she said._

_Duh, I thought. In fact, there is a tiny 'Indian burial ground' at the end of our road, although a fairly contemporary one, and I grew up with a couple of classmates whose family members are essentially the last survivors of the local tribe—the brothers seemed extremely shy, and each rarely spoke much with anyone other than his identical twin. Or maybe I didn't listen enough—anyway, I never did know whether they were Maidu or Miwok, or some other clan altogether. _

_Still, my mother's comment seemed an odd one for her to make. _

"_Why do you say that, about the Indians?" I asked._

"_I think I heard them," she replied. "Back when we were still the only house out here."_

"_You heard Indians?" I'm sure I sounded skeptical, because…well, because I was. "Mother, the Lasters didn't live anywhere near here, and I'm sure they spoke English. You did _not_ hear Indians."_

_She's a stubborn woman, my mother, and she hastened to defend herself._

"_Yes, I did. I heard voices, when there wasn't anyone else around, nobody living nearby. And they weren't 'white' voices, either. I heard a child crying, too—several times. I even went outside to look for it."_

_I was beginning to get the picture, although it was an unbelievable one. My mother—a genteel woman raised as a strict Southern Methodist who has never shown the slightest interest in anything remotely supernatural—was talking about Indian spirits as though not only did they exist, but that they had, in a way, communicated with her._

"_Mom." _

_It wasn't really the spirits that were beyond my ken, but my mother's revelation; I was kind of flabbergasted, and I rationalized furiously. "You heard the wind. And you didn't hear a kid crying—we were the only house out here, so how could there have been a child? It was an animal or something. A cat yowling."_

_She was undeterred and a little miffed. "Where'd it come from, then? I raised the four of you and I've had cats. I know the sound a child makes when it cries, Lin. What I heard was __not__ a cat."_

"_So, it was—what, Mom? What exactly are you saying?"_

"_Exactly what I did say," she replied, and that was the end of the conversation._

_Ultimately, I surrendered, as a good daughter should. My practical, church-going, no-nonsense mother has heard Indian spirits and at least one unhappy child where no child could possibly be, and I won't doubt her any more. _

_So, in the Markhams' historic hotel? That was _never_ a cat._


	9. Chapter 9

_Thank you for reading, my lovely, loyal dears. You're a small but hardy (and fascinating!) band, brave and daring, and I'm very grateful for you!_

_My warmest regards to Tari Roo for giving me a push that I probably really needed; and to those who are perhaps feeling a little leery about certain elements, but who trust me enough to keep reading anyway. This story is categorized as "supernatural" and "mystery" because that's what it is. Have some more cookies, everyone...._

_We're about to enter the home stretch—remember, there are eleven chapters in all. _

**Rush**

**Chapter Nine**

No matter what he poked or twisted or gouged, there was nothing Dean could find hidden in the altar, and Grace had said the joss house had burned several times since the early days, anyway.

So that left the basement, just like he had suspected from the beginning.

He'd noticed the switch just inside the hidden door during his first visit, and when Dean flicked it on, he barked a laugh to see the single 60-watt bulb dangling nakedly from the middle of the ceiling.

"That remind you of anything, Quon-Jin?" he taunted as his eyes adjusted to the dim light. "Hanging in mid-air? I'll bet you feel right at home in your old digs, don't you?"

There were several stacks of aging cardboard boxes piled on wooden pallets scattered around the room, one or two of them nearly man-high, and the bare lightbulb threw harsh shadows over the uneven clay floor. The air was musty, and although he thought it might be his imagination, Dean smelled another, darker odor beneath the incense wafting in from the temple.

"So this is where you hooked 'em, huh?" he challenged. "Got your celestial buddies stupid with opium, then fed your own sick habit by killing little girls. Guess you only had the 'nads to prey on the vulnerable—isn't that right, you sick fuck?"

The salt-gun was ready, he'd turned on the EMF meter in his pocket, and now Dean tossed the shovel down to the bottom of the stairs, where it bounced on the hard earth with a clang. Keeping a cautious eye on the room below him, he leaned down and ripped open the Velcro straps around his thigh.

With his knee free to move, Dean flexed it carefully, hand finding the strap just below his patella and tearing it open before reaching for the one at his ankle. He tossed the brace behind him, back out into the temple, then put his full weight on his bum leg, testing its limits. It twinged slightly, but it would do.

His grin broadening, Dean regained his balance with weight on both feet and ran his tongue along his lower lip.

"You know, I got no sympathy for those poppy-smokers," he told the empty room, "but a kid? Man, you deserved what they gave you, and I hope you died slow and ugly for what you did."

He could feel something gathering, an ominous tension rising in the room, and for just a second Dean thought about Sam, regretting he hadn't at least called his brother to tell him what was going down. But it was too late for that now.

Dean stepped down onto the first riser of the narrow staircase.

"Come on out, Quon-Jin," he called. "I'm not a little girl, but you might be able to take me. I saw Katie's footprints on the stairs—you lure her down here and kill her? Offered her candy or a doll; friendship, even, huh? That how it happened? Only a coward would kill an eight-year-old, but I'd guess the yellow streak down your back was pretty wide, wasn't it, 'Bright Gold'?"

He sneered the Americanized name, his tone derisive, and whatever it was that was building in the basement, it grew even stronger, darker, with his words. Colder, too, and even beneath his jacket, Dean felt the goose-bumps rise on his arms.

He took another step down, and then another.

"You know, your great-granddaughter despises you for what you did," he said almost casually now, although his eyes flicked constantly around the small room. "She's ashamed of you, and I don't blame her. Every day she goes to work, she's reminded of what an evil sonofabitch you were, and now I'm gonna fix it so she doesn't have to think about you ever again."

The single bulb flickered suddenly, the buzz-hum of electricity spattering like hot grease in a skillet against the ceiling.

_There!_

Beside the first stack of boxes, a shadow formed, darkening, solidifying into the figure of a middle-aged Chinese man in black silk trousers and a richly embroidered tunic of deep blue, hair pulled back from his face in a long braid, glaring angrily at Dean.

The hunter smiled with satisfaction, meeting the spirit's gaze with one almost as dark, taking yet another step as he prepared to lift the weapon in his hand. "I gotta say, losin' your pigtail must've been a bitch, Quon-Jin, and the look they left you with definitely didn't suit you," he said mockingly. "So I'm not surprised you went back to your old style. Doesn't matter much, though, 'cause I'm gonna dig up your real queue, and when I do? I'm gonna use it to put you down."

The ghost's snarl grew, twisting his lips cruelly, contorting his expression into something scarcely human, and then the temperature plummeted, sub-zero, Dean's breath before him in a plume of white visible only for the millisecond it took for the naked light dangling overhead to nova suddenly and die.

In that same millisecond, Dean was eight steps from the bottom of the stairs, raising the shotgun to fire, and Quon-Jin lunged forward as if to stop him, the spirit's eyes and mouth opened wide now, crying "No!" so loudly that the sound hammered at Dean's eardrums, making him wince with the pulsing pain.

Then he felt small hands on his back, shoving him forward.

His left knee buckled instantly, and Dean grabbed frantically for the banister, felt the rush of fresh agony in his right knee and let go, tumbling into the basement, striking wall and stair-rail and wall again, then finally floor.

For a moment, he was staring dazedly up at the ceiling from where he lay, watching as light fizzed slowly back into the bulb overhead even as his eyesight grew dim. The last thing he saw before darkness claimed him was the angry spirit of Quon-Jin Chin bending over him, claw-like hands outstretched.

-:- -:- -:-

The man-skip gone from the mine entrance, and Sam knew that Steve and Erica would have ridden it down for the follow-up inspection. He checked his watch, frowning—Erica had told him they were starting at 3:00, and that it wouldn't take long. It was now 4:30…surely they should have been back before this.

"Steve?" he called down the yawning tunnel, hearing the faint, muffled echo of his own voice vanish into the darkness. "Erica! Can you hear me?"

He'd tried his cell, but the battery charge was still low and he didn't think the signal was getting through all the granite and quartz, anyway. Face pinched with worry, Sam paced about the shaft-collar for a few minutes before shouting out again. There was still no answer, and the unease that had set in flared sharply, goading him to action. He grabbed up a safety helmet from the supply cabinet and fastened it on securely, wincing as it grazed the lump on his head. Then he flicked the switch on the headlamp, testing, and pulled out his last good flashlight as well—_Both_ _working. Good. T_he string of bulbs Steve had hung through the main shaft were sufficient to light the way for now, but it never hurt to be prepared.

Sam thought for half a moment about heading back outside to give his brother a call, but the silence of the mine was disturbing enough that he headed quickly down the tunnel instead, stooping more than slightly, raising one hand and running the pads of his fingers along the stone ceiling to help him judge its height.

He moved swiftly, pausing regularly to call out, listening without success for an answering cry, following the rails down into the North Cedar.

On foot, it took him almost ten minutes to reach the tunnel to the Thirty-Six, where he found the man-skip, and another two minutes to make the upper drift, where the generator-powered lights glowed brightly. But there was no other sign of Steve or Erica.

He wasn't sure why they would have gone down to the lower drift, since Steve intended to close it off, but there was nowhere else they could be. Frustrated, Sam jogged through the granite passageway toward the tunnel that would take him to the forty-eight-hundred-foot level.

The cold spot enveloped him suddenly, and with no other warning the mule appeared before him, its spectral eyes rolling, long ears twitching nervously, nostrils flaring in fright just before it blinked out of existence once again.

_That wasn't right. _

When he'd seen it before, Sam had been certain that the animal was a residual haunting, replaying a placid scene from its life again and again, but what he'd just seen was altogether different. This time, the mule had seemed on the verge of panic.

_But he'd set wards_…

Sam whirled, taking in the entire drift in a quick three-sixty, but there was nothing else to see.

"Erica!" he shouted, voice deep with concern. "Erica, can you hear me? Steve! Answer me!"

A hair-raising scream floated along the passage from the Forty-Eight, chilling him, and Sam began to run, forced to duck more and more as the rock ceiling pressed lower once he was into the pitch-black tunnel. He switched on his headlamp and flashlight, but they immediately began to flicker and dim, just as he heard another scream. Then Erica was hurtling toward him, the light from her helmet dancing spasmodically as she ran, her eyes frozen wide in terror.

"Erica!"

It was like she didn't even see him—didn't, or couldn't. She had her hands outstretched before her, her breath coming in heaving cries as she threw a horrified glance over her shoulder and then barreled straight into Sam.

He grabbed her fiercely, shook her, trying to get her to focus.

"Erica! Erica, stop! It's me—it's Sam! Tell me what happened!"

She battled him furiously at first, a keening, sub-human noise in her throat, eyes wild.

"Nononononono," she moaned, yanking back hard as his hands encircled her wrists, and Sam had to protect his eyes, his face from the talons she made of her fingers.

There was no noise other than her terrified cries, and no sign of Steve, no sign of anything pursuing her, but she continued to struggle frantically against him, battering Sam's chest until finally, desperately, he enfolded her into an embrace, hugging her against him to still her. That was when she calmed at last, sobbing into his chest as he held her.

"Shhh, shhh," he soothed, petting her, smoothing her hair as she fought to regain her breath, choking on her tears. "You're safe, now. Erica, you're safe. I'm here, now—tell me! Tell me what's happened. Are you hurt? Did someone hurt you?"

She bobbed her head quickly, burrowing closer to him. "I saw—I saw—I don't know how…There was a—a thing! A man! He's got Steve!"

_Clancy. It had to be Clancy. They must have missed something in the cemetery. _

Sam shifted her away from him briefly, and the instant he did so, her panic returned in full force. She tried to wrench free, to resume her headlong flight back up the tunnel toward the Thirty-Six, but he held her firmly, his hands around her arms.

"Where are they?" he asked. "Are they in the Forty-Eight? Okay, okay—Erica, listen to me. I need you to go out of the mine and call my brother. His name's Dean, remember? Erica, are you listening to me? Yes? Okay—here's my cell. Once you get out of the mine, you need to call my brother and tell him that Clancy's here. Erica? Tell him Clancy's here, and that I'm going after him. Can you do that? Can you call my brother and tell him that Clancy's here?"

She was making the keening noise again as he pressed his cell phone and flashlight into her hands. Then she ripped herself out of his grasp and scrabbled frantically up the tunnel toward the upper drift. Sam watched her until she disappeared into the darkness, then set his jaw and moved cautiously down the narrow passage toward the Forty-Eight.

Steve hadn't run any power to this depth, but as Sam neared the lower drift, he turned off his headlamp. There was no need for it, as eldritch blue light played tenuously along the walls of the tunnel, glinting off the granite there.

"I don't mind that the girl left."

The Irish brogue floated eerily out of the drift, and Sam froze until it became apparent that Clancy was inside the Forty-Eight, talking to himself, maybe—more likely to Steve. "That leaves just you and me, Leland, just as it was at the start. And I'll take back what's mine!"

"You can have it!" Steve's voice was high and quavering with fright. "Take it back! Just let me go!"

Setting his back against the tunnel wall, Sam ducked quickly to peer into the drift. Some twenty feet away, Steve Hartson was on his backside and elbows on the stone floor, gaping up in horror at the specter looming over him.

-:- -:- -:-

"Dean! Dean!"

Grace knelt beside him, one trembling hand on his arm, the other brushing his face, and Dean hissed awake as her fingers found the bloody lump at his left temple.

_Whoa—not dead!_

He was more or less upside down on the staircase, the girl squeezed in beside him, fright and concern bright in her eyes.

"Where is he?" Dean blurted, twisting awkwardly to see into the basement. "Where's Quon-Jin? Where's my shotgun?"

_Sweet Jesus, he hurt like a sonofabitch_, he thought, drawing his arms and legs in as Grace hurried away to retrieve the weapon, caught between banister rails halfway up the steps.

"Don't move!" she urged. "You might have broken something."

Dean got his elbows under him, then pulled himself down off the stairs until he was lying flat on his back against the cool clay floor.

"Nothing's broke," he assured her, although he wasn't all that positive he was telling her the truth. Blood was running into his eye, and his knee felt like someone had taken a sledgehammer to it. Dean risked a quick look, a hasty exploration with two fingers, but his kneecap appeared to still be where it belonged.

"I told you to stay put," he growled at Grace darkly, his eyes sweeping the room as he pulled himself to a sitting position. "How did you get in here?"

"Did you think I only had one set of keys?" she asked, her voice amazingly matter-of-fact for someone so pale with fright. "You didn't come out. Besides, it's not a Chinese holiday."

The air was cold—thick and electric. Dean could tell that Quon-Jin had not left the basement, was hiding somewhere amongst the stacks of boxes, and the hunter got his back to the wall in a hurry, drawing Grace with him.

"Help me up," he ordered, "but don't let go of the shotgun. Then I want you to hand it to me, and get the hell out of here."

Grace took his arm, pulling until she could tuck herself under it, then pushing until he was standing, leaning heavily against her.

"I'm not leaving," she said firmly, although he could feel her body quaking. "He's my ancestor."

Dean caught her chin, forced her to look at him, to look into his eyes and realize fully what was at stake.

"Grace, I have to end him."

"He's evil," she replied instantly, not flinching, "and he's my responsibility."

Dean searched her face, saw the determination there, admired her fortitude, then scowled at her utter stupidity. But he understood.

_Oh, God, he understood._

For a second, he tightened his arm around her shoulder, wondering if he'd have her strength if it came down to it—_he said that I might have to kill you, Sammy_—then released her and took the shotgun.

"Okay," he said. "But stay behind me. I don't want you to get hurt."

-:- -:- -:-

"Hey!" Sam thundered, striding into the drift brazenly, unarmed except for the gun gripped tight in his hand. Shooting Casper never really accomplished much, even with iron bullets, but it might prove distracting.

The ghost of Bull Clancy towered over Steve Hartson, reaching down to lift the mine-owner off the ground and shake him like a rag-doll, then setting him back on his feet at arm's length.

Steve's arms wind-milled wildly, as though he were about to lose his balance, teetering precariously on the edge of something Sam could not see. Sam raced toward him, angling for a decent shot at the ghost, but then Clancy placed a giant hand against Steve's chest and gave a tiny push. Steve rocked back and disappeared into the ground with a scream.

"No!" Sam shouted, immediately pumping six rounds into Clancy's glowing form. The spirit faltered, whirling on him with a ghostly leer, then blinking out.

In pitch-blackness, Sam pulled up sharply before he accidentally stepped into whatever hole Steve had fallen through. He stashed the gun in the back of his jeans, then dropped to a crouch and moved forward cautiously, patting the ground before him with one hand until suddenly he was at the edge of what seemed to be a shaft cut straight down through the granite.

Sam flipped the switch on his head-lamp, which flickered dimly in the consuming darkness, providing little in the way of illumination. The opening in the drift-floor was relatively narrow, maybe three-and-a-half or four feet wide, but he couldn't tell how deep it ran; for all he knew, there was no bottom.

"Steve!" Sam shouted, his voice echoing in the cavernous drift. "Steve, can you hear me?"

There was a sound like splashing from below. Startled, Sam leaned down into the hole so that his light shone on an undulating surface maybe fifteen, twenty feet beneath him. Groundwater, almost filling a flooded chamber.

A loud gasp and more frenzied splashing told him Steve had room to breathe and room to move, both good signs.

"Steve!" he shouted again.

"Sam!" the mine-owner sputtered, out of sight, but then the water roiled in the faint light of Sam's head-lamp and Steve swam directly under the narrow shaft.

"You okay?" Sam asked, as Steve began to weep in fear.

"Get me out, get me out!" he begged piteously. "I can't touch bottom—oh, God, please get me out!"

"Take it easy, man—I'm gonna help you," Sam soothed, dropping prone on the granite floor and stretching a long arm down into the shaft. "Can you take my hand?"

Steve reached up as high as he could, but it was easy to see their effort was fruitless. The hole was simply too deep.

"Help me!" the mine-owner whimpered. "Please help me."

"I'm right here, and you're gonna be fine, Steve. Just take it easy."

Sam pulled his arm out of the shaft, pushing quickly up onto his knees, and Steve's voice rose shrilly. "Don't leave me!"

"Easy, man—I'm not going anywhere! I just want to get my shirt off, so we can use it to—"

He stopped talking and whipped off his long-sleeved outer shirt, testing the strength of the seams where sleeve met shoulder. It just might work, if….

Sam quickly made knots at each cuff, then dropped back onto his belly, holding one of the knotted sleeves and leaning into the shaft, allowing his shirt to dangle freely. The other sleeve reached almost to the bottom of the shaft.

"Steve, grab my shirt!" Sam ordered, and Steve raised his arms again, grasping desperately for the shirt but unable to lift himself out of the water far enough to catch hold, falling short by a foot or more—it was hard to tell in the dim light.

"I can't reach it," Steve moaned, choking and coughing suddenly as he took in a mouthful of water.

"Come on, try harder!" Sam inched himself forward until his upper body was dangerously deep into the hole--a _winze_, his memory supplied--and his own center of gravity threatened to pitch him into the water on top of the struggling mine-owner. He braced an arm against the winze's granite wall to secure himself, then stretched an impossible inch farther down.

Steve gathered himself for another attempt, gazing desperately up at Sam from the flooded lower level. Then his eyes widened in terror and Sam watched his own thin shadow grow across Steve's pale face, the light from the head-lamp dying quickly, only to be replaced by a blue glow shining down the winze from over Sam's shoulder.

Steve shrank away, babbling incomprehensibly as Sam let go of the shirt and frantically pushed himself up out of the winze. He scrambled to his feet, surrounded by spirit-light and horrid, mocking laughter.

Bull Clancy had returned.

-:- -:- -:-

Truth be told, Dean wasn't sure which was more likely to send him to the ground, the throbbing pain in his head or the one in his knee. The room was spinning, for all that Grace had hold of him, and he felt so off-balance that he thought he might keel right over at the first wrong step. 'Course, the wrong step was a given, because he was really pretty sure his knee was gonna give just as soon as he put any real weight on it.

_Damn it!_

"C'mon out, Quon-Jin, and let's finish this!" he shouted, far too loudly for his own tastes, given the knot on his brow. "Quit lurkin' around like the child molester you are and act like a man! Oh, but I forgot. You're _not _a man, you're a _coward_. Well, I can help you get over that, if you'll just come on out and—"

Behind him, Grace inhaled sharply, at the same time pulling reflexively at the back of Dean's shirt as the lightbulb spat and the spirit of Quon-Jin Chin stepped through a stack of boxes piled in the middle of the freezing room.

Dean raised the salt-gun instantly, but then Grace gasped again.

"Dean!"

A pale mist appeared, coalescing quickly before them, between where they stood at the base of the staircase and Quon-Jin's glowering form. In seconds they could clearly see a young girl in a dark green dress and ruffled white petticoats that came well below her knees, her light brown hair tied back at the temples and falling in loose curls down her back. Expressionless, she held up her hands to them as though warning them to stay away.

Grace's shocked cry hardly rose above a whisper. "Katie! That's Katie Kaheny!"

"Katie?" Dean winced, raising an arm swiftly to wipe away the blood trickling through his eyebrow, distracting him. "The one he _killed_?"

Quon-Jin used the opportunity to move forward abruptly, and Dean brought the salt-gun to bear, Grace shrinking back and the spirit of the little girl standing as though frozen, brown eyes big and soulful in her pretty face, right in the line of fire.

"Katie, get down!" Dean commanded as Quon-Jin reached for her. The child startled suddenly as the infuriated Chinese ghost took her by the shoulders, pulling her back against him and placing an arm across her chest.

Dean lined up for a head-shot.

"Let her go, you sonofabitch," he snarled, hearing Grace's squeak of fright somewhere behind him.

But then something curious happened.

Katie twisted quickly in Quon-Jin's grip, pivoting so that she stood beside him, arms clasped tightly around his waist as she pressed close against the blue silk of his tunic.

When she turned her face to the hunter, Dean could clearly see the fright in the little girl's eyes before Quon-Jin shifted slightly until his body partially blocked hers.

With a clear shot now at the Chinese man before him, Dean raised his cheek from the stock, brows drawing together.

"What the--?"

Quon-Jin Chin stood tall and determined, his face still distorted with anger and Katie peering out fearfully from behind him as Dean brandished the salt-gun.

"I'm scaring her," Dean realized aloud, hardly believing his own words. "She's not afraid of _him_—she's afraid of _me_!"

"What?"

He could scarcely hear Grace's voice, although the curator stood only slightly behind him, and Dean risked a quick glance. Her eyes were wide with shock, and she seemed unable to tear them away from the two spirits who had appeared in the middle of the joss house's frigid basement, scarcely five feet away.

Dean began solving the puzzle on the fly, answers coming to him with a rush now that he'd seen the Chinaman and the little girl together. "Look at them, Grace," he said. "He's a scary-ass drug lord and she's just a kid. Whether or not he killed her, she should be terrified of him. Running from him, or hiding. Instead, she's…Katie?"

Grace squeaked again as Dean lowered the shotgun barrel and took a cautious step toward the spirits. Quon-Jin billowed forward ominously, the little girl shrinking away, and Dean halted immediately, his hands outspread.

_Aw, Jesus, now he was scaring himself. Holy crap—what was he thinking? Ghosts? Bad, Dean! They're bad! Look at that guy!_

He knew his eyes were big with doubt and fear and surprise, and Dean took in a harsh breath that got caught somewhere north of his lungs. He blew it out and tried again, wetting his lips and patting the air on both sides of him, like some giant, gun-toting bird trying for a little lift.

_C'mon, Dean, dammit! There's no such thing as a real Casper the effin' Friendly Ghost—they're bad, every last one of 'em! Molly McNamara…well, hell, God knew what had been up with _that_ chick, but surely she was the exception to a gigantic fucking rule. There's a reason they're called the Evil Undead, right? _

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Dean said soothingly, amazed at how calm he sounded, considering he'd just gone fuckin' nuts. "Look, I think I'm getting the picture, here, so everybody just relax."

He couldn't let go of the gun, because no way in hell was he going to trust the Chinaman not to go all Jet Li on his ass, although maybe old-timey opium dealers weren't much into the martial arts. Ghosts had other freaky powers, though, and for a split second Dean wondered why the gun was still in his hand in the first place. He'd had plenty of experience with having weapons ripped from his grasp, with being thrown bodily across rooms and streets and fields with a simple wag of some pissed-off spirit's see-through finger. But that wasn't happening here….

_Don't like 'em, don't like 'em, don't like 'em!_

Dean cleared his throat. "Katie, sweetheart, I need you to tell me something." _Unfuckingbelievable, what he was doing_. "Did this man ever hurt you?"

The child's image faltered behind Quon-Jin's, stuttering in and out of existence as she watched the hunter dubiously, and Dean took another hobbling step forward.

"No, Katie, please! You gotta stay and tell the truth, now! There's a whole lot of people who think that this man right here hurt you. See this pretty lady? That's her great-granddaddy, and even _she_ thinks he did something bad to you. But he didn't, did he? Quon-Jin was your friend, isn't that right? He was your friend, right up to the very end, and even after."

Katie solidified once more, nodding hesitantly although she still eyed Dean with distrust.

The spirit of Quon-Jin Chin stepped back slightly, his head tipped, obviously deeply suspicious but no longer quite so menacing. His gaze flickered between the two people before him, then lingered on Grace, his expression altering from wariness to sorrow.

When Katie clutched his leg tightly and peered up at him beseechingly, Quon-Jin placed a sheltering hand on her shoulder.

"He didn't kill her," Grace said, sudden understanding giving strength to her words. "He's been protecting her. Each time the ghost has done something threatening, it's been because he's protecting her!"

Dean nodded, growing even more accustomed to the idea. "Or her memory, her reputation. Maybe kids in general, even. That teacher today? Maybe sayin' some things about Katie this ol' guy didn't like, or maybe just givin' those kids a little too hard a time."

"But in the museum…?" the curator asked almost timidly. "Why would he have appeared in the museum?"

Dean shook his head, grimacing at the resultant spike of pain. "Don't know—somebody did _something_ he didn't like, I guess."

"You swore," Grace replied instantly. "You swore, when some of the children were still in the room."

The hunter blinked.

"What the hell's so bad about—"

The angry glower was back on Quon-Jin's face, the ghost bristling visibly, planting himself even more firmly in front of Katie until Dean patted the air again to make peace.

"Okay, okay! Calm down!" he barked. "Sorry. I'll, uh…I'll watch my language in front of the kid."

_Jesus Christ, this was fucking unbelievable!_

There was a pause before Quon-Jin finally nodded, then raised his other hand, stretching it out toward Grace in silent entreaty, his face transforming with longing and regret.

"Look at them, Grace," Dean said quietly with a thrust of his chin, certain now that he knew the truth, as unnatural as it might seem. "He's not her killer; he's her guardian. I think he stayed behind to take care of her, until they could both move on."

Although he could not see them on her face, Dean heard the tears in Grace's voice. "I was wrong," she said, her hand plucking lightly at Dean's elbow as though for support she wasn't certain she deserved. "Everyone was wrong. Great-grandfather, I'm so sorry! You have been done a great injustice, and I am guiltiest of all."

It seemed, then, that the spirit of Quon-Jin Chin began to brighten, but the little girl pulled at him, mouthing a cry and clinging even tighter.

"Katie," Dean called to her softly. "Katie, Quon-Jin's granddaughter didn't respect him because of what people thought he did to you. Can you imagine how much it must hurt, that his own family thought he was a bad man? Sweetheart, if he's been a friend to you, then it's time to be a friend to him."

The child's image stuttered again, and suddenly she was standing right in front of him, her head tipped far back so that she could see Dean's face. Grace gasped with renewed alarm, and Dean slowly put a hand out to take hers, squeezing her fingers briefly.

"It's all right, Grace," he said calmly, keeping his eyes on the child before him. "Sometimes, spirits just can't seem to move on until they think there's justice. I think Quon-Jin might be ready, now that you know he's not her killer. But Katie can't go until she tells us who _was_."

Unclasping Grace's hand, Dean set the stock of the salt-gun against the clay floor for balance and knelt gingerly until he was level with Katie, green eyes meeting eyes long dead.

"It's gonna be okay, honey," he murmured. "Tell me what you have to tell me, and then you and Quon-Jin can go into the light together, where you belong."

Slowly Katie raised her hands, taking Dean's face in them. Her touch was freezing, adding a whole new layer to how much his head hurt, and he almost flinched. Instead, Dean held her gaze squarely, amazed to see so much intelligence, so much _life_ looking back. Somehow, it seemed she might be thinking the same thing about him.

"It's all right, sweetheart," he whispered, lips curled into an encouraging smile. "You just tell me who it was that killed you, and everything's going to be all right."

-:- -:- -:-

Sam stood quickly, but with a flick of a finger, Bull Clancy sent him flying. He rolled when he hit, skinning knees and elbows and scrambling his brain as he let momentum carry him.

It did no good, because Clancy was still right there when Sam finally came to a stop, eyes focusing slowly on the spirit's scuffed boots, traveling up and up until he could see the Irishman leering down at him.

"Shouldna teamed up with Hartson, laddy-buck," the ghost informed him blithely in his thick brogue. "That thievin', good-fer-nothin' high-grader'll get what's comin' to him, but it looks like it's yer turn first!"

Sam read the signs just a second before Clancy drew back a booted foot to launch a vicious kick at his intended victim. The young man's eyes widened, and he shifted hurriedly, catching the boot on the right cheek of his backside instead of in his stomach or his ribcage.

Clancy swore as Sam got his hands and abraded knees under him, pushing off the granite floor and putting some distance between himself and the ghost.

"Look, buddy," the hunter panted, stalling for time while he tried to figure out if the gun was still stashed in the back of his jeans. "If you've got a beef, it's with Leland Hartson, and he's been dead for a hundred years at least. His grandchildren don't mean you any harm, and neither do I."

"Don't take me for a dundarlan, boyo. The man's a cheat, makin' millions out of this place after he'd paid me next to nothin' fer it."

Sam shifted his weight to one side and –_there_! He could feel the hard butt of the gun against his spine. He'd started with a full magazine; had used half a dozen rounds, which meant—

"Mining's a gamble, Clancy," he said boldly, turning away slightly with his right hand behind his back. "You lost, and now you're trespassing."

Clancy's leer turned into a snarl. "Yeh streak o' piss, y'know perfectly well that Leland said the same thing to me, bringing me down to the Forty-Eight to show me the lode, rubbin' it in how grand it was, then throwin' me out!"

"So go," Sam replied succinctly, drawing out the Taurus and pumping four rounds into the spirit, point-blank.

The Irishman's image blinked out immediately, leaving Sam alone in the vastness of the drift, wincing at the sting of his abrasions, ears ringing. He heaved in a huge gulp of air, but before he could even release it, Clancy was back. This time, there was a pickax in his hands.

"I'll give yeh this, lad, yer a feckin' chancer," the ghost said with a jerk of his chin. The gun was torn out of Sam's grip, vanishing into the darkness. "And now?"

_He's missing half his teeth_, Sam thought distractedly as Clancy grinned wide, hefting the ax with menace.

"Now, yer a loser, too."

-:- -:- -:-

_TBC. Thanks for reading! Comments are welcomed._


	10. Chapter 10

_Somewhere along the way, I've mentioned to some of you that I'm really proud of Sam in this story. I don't mean the way I've written him (she types humbly), but of Sam himself—not surprised, but proud nevertheless. What he does in this chapter is why._

_Hey, I really appreciate all the feedback, alerting and fav'ing. My, you're awesome!_

**Rush**

**Chapter Ten**

"Tell me, Katie," Dean said, meeting the spirit-child's wide brown eyes squarely. "Tell me the name of the person who killed you."

At first he thought it was his imagination, because her mouth didn't move, and because the sound seemed to come from everywhere. Strains of familiar music, something he'd heard before on that first afternoon at The Baron Hotel—a child's lilting voice singing a tune long dead.

_Come be my forever love_

_My lovely little turtle dove_

"Do you hear that?" he asked gruffly, never taking his eyes off the spirit before him. "Grace, tell me you can hear that."

Beside him, Grace shifted slightly, and he caught the movement in his peripheral vision.

"'Lovely Turtle Dove,'" she breathed.

"I get it, Katie," Dean confirmed for the little girl, his voice still soft. "It was Agnes Markham, wasn't it? Her husband called her 'turtle dove,' but she was really a vulture. Agnes hurt you—killed you—and nobody but her and you and Quon-Jin ever knew. Is that right?"

The spirit nodded solemnly, and Dean winced at the sorrow in her expression.

"Honey, _why_? Can you tell me why she would do such a terrible thing to you?"

Katie leaned in even closer to whisper into Dean's ear, her icy breath painful on his bare flesh.

"Not—my—mommy…" she told him, withdrawing slightly and holding up three pale white fingers.

In an instant, she was back across the room, shrinking against Quon-Jin's side as Dean recoiled slightly, startled.

The move put him off-balance, his knee giving way without warning, and Dean toppled back and to the side, landing painfully, high on his hip.

"Sonofa--!"

"Dean!" Grace cried, kneeling quickly beside him.

The air was suddenly thick with tension as Quon-Jin billowed forward again, darkening, shoving Katie out of the way. Dean grabbed up the salt-gun with a snarl, once more bringing it to bear on the hanged man.

"Hold it!"

He matched steely gazes with the Chinese spirit, then remembered suddenly the feel of small hands on the stairs, pushing against his back as he raised the shotgun to fire, forcing him off-kilter; remembered Quon-Jin leaping forward with a shout. Dean drew his brows together, taking his bottom lip in his teeth. _Maybe they protect each other._

As if on cue, Katie gave her hand an angry flip, the gun flying from Dean's hands as he lay on the clay floor and a stack of cardboard boxes tumbling forward, almost in slow motion. Grace screamed as the cartons fell, breaking open to bury them both in a sudden flood of books and papers, old clothes and tools, cast-offs from an earlier age.

The hunter struggled to rise, cursing, digging his way out from under and bringing Grace with him so that together they burst up from the flotsam like breaching dolphins from ocean waves. Dean pawed for his handgun, but it was gone, lost somewhere in the basement along with the salt-gun, and iron rounds wouldn't have done much good, anyway. About the best he could do was stay on his feet and breathe heavily, protecting Grace by standing in front of her and attempting to pin the Chinaman and the little girl with a baleful glare.

"_Dean, how do you think angry spirits are born?"_

The soft voice was vague and fleeting in Dean's memory as everyone stood frozen for a long, tense moment.

"_They can't let go, and they can't move on."_

He didn't know where the words came from—didn't really care—but he recognized the empathy in them, felt them touch a responding chord somewhere inside him.

These two, a little girl who should have had her whole life ahead of her and the man falsely accused of her murder—they deserved something better than the cards they'd been dealt.

But they needed to go, and go now, before they really got somebody hurt. Or dead.

So, finally, Dean ducked his head.

"All right," he said curtly, forcing his shoulders to relax, knowing all eyes were on him. "It's all right. We've just got to work this out."

Slowly, the tension eased, Quon-Jin repositioning himself protectively near Katie, Grace getting a solid grip of Dean's arm to help steady him.

He knew without looking that his kneecap hadn't dislocated again, but the pain was sharp, almost sharper than it had been in Elko, and Dean flashed suddenly on Sam, on how mad Sammy'd be if his big brother had gone and screwed things up beyond redemption.

A caustic laugh tried to crawl out of his mouth, and Dean bit it back impatiently.

_Another Winchester, beyond redemption_.

Couldn't say it would surprise him, if it happened, he thought. Make that _when_ it happened. _Like father, like son_—

Except that Dean had a job to do first, and damned if he wasn't going to do it.

_I'm takin' care of business, Dad, and I'm tryin' to take care of Sammy, too. Some days are just easier than others. This one? Hell, who ever figured I'd be jawin' with ghosts? _

Keeping a wary eye on Quon-Jin, he shifted to a more comfortable position, most of his weight on his left leg, against Grace.

"I don't understand," the curator said, her voice undeniably even although her body was trembling. "Agnes killed Katie because she wasn't _her_ daughter?"

"Maybe," Dean rasped, his knee screaming like a banshee. "Maybe she was jealous of Katie's mom. Or maybe she just killed her out of grief at having lost her own kid so recently."

That put a frown-line between Grace's brows, and she turned to him almost sharply. "The Markhams didn't have a child."

"Yeah, they did, actually, and I can show you the proof upstairs in your own little museum. _And_ at the cemetery—I think the Historical Society's going to have to make that fence around the Markhams' grave a little larger. Anyway, after Agnes murdered Katie, she blamed Quon-Jin."

"And they just believed her? What proof could they have had that he was guilty?" Grace's voice cracked with emotion, and Dean brushed a hand against her arm, thinking of the little footprints he'd seen on the pollen-dusted basement steps.

"They didn't need any, Grace. I think Quon-Jin and Katie hung out together back in the day, kinda like they do now. Don't know how they got to be buddies, but they were, and she probably came and went down here as she pleased, although maybe not while he had customers. So he'd have had plenty of opportunity to kill her, if he'd wanted to, and Agnes…well, Agnes already had some kind of an ax to grind against foreign imports. Plus, those days? She knew that nobody'd ever take the word of a Chinaman over hers."

Across the spill of cardboard boxes, Quon-Jin's spirit brightened again, and if he squinted, Dean might swear the hanged man had begun to smile.

_Effin' ghosts, throwin' him off, actin' almost human…_

"Is that right, you two?" Dean asked, and although both Katie and her protector nodded, the little girl tucked her ring finger under her thumb beside the little one, leaving two fingers still upraised.

"Not—my—mommy!" she repeated firmly.

"Not her mommy?" Dean growled to Grace in frustration. "What's that mean? Who the hell _was_ her mommy?"

Of course Grace had the answer. "Delilah Reardon," she said. "I'm sorry, Dean—I thought you knew."

-:- -:- -:-

Bull Clancy was a monster of a man, his height almost equal to Sam's, but his mass broader, every inch of it spectral muscle. Sam wondered how he'd managed to miss all that the first times he'd seen the ghost, because it sure as hell was hard to miss now. And for a dead guy, Bull wielded a pickax with amazing accuracy.

Sam dodged back quickly as the ax swung past him, chest-high. He had raised his gun to fire when it had gone flying, torn from his hand by spirit-force, skittering across the stone floor into the utter darkness of the drift as Clancy hoisted the ax for another swing. Now, he was weaponless, and the iron rounds hadn't had much impact on the ghost to begin with.

Clancy came at him again, dead eyes glittering with malicious humor, feinting left, then right as the hunter countered warily. Somewhere nearby was the hole Steve had dropped through, and for a moment Sam thought the ghost might be maneuvering him toward it.

But Clancy laughed, vanishing abruptly and plunging the Forty-Eight into utter darkness, only to reappear moments later at Sam's back.

Sam whirled, huffing with angry surprise, and Clancy vanished again, this time blinking into existence just behind Sam's left shoulder. When the ghost tapped him lightly, leaning in and grinning as though to tell the young man some delicious secret, the touch was like ice, freezing Sam's arm and the expanse of his back.

With a shout, Sam leaped away again, although he knew he was only buying time as Clancy's roaring laughter echoed around the vast and empty drift.

-:- -:- -:-

Dean blinked, brows gathering as he looked skeptically at the woman beside him.

"The local madam was the gold-camp darling's mother," he said in disbelief, and Grace nodded.

"Delilah _Reardon_ was Katie's mother," Dean said again, just to make sure, "and they both lived upstairs at The Baron."

"Yes, and yes," Grace confirmed quickly. "Katie's body was found in the alley right behind the hotel."

_Well, what do you know? Maybe that wasn't just little Wren Markham he'd heard…_

Then Dean's frustration spiked. "Where the hell did 'Kaheny' come from!?" he snapped to the room at large.

"Uh—there was probably some gossip, but nobody ever really knew for sure who Katie's father was. Delilah never told."

"Grace."

His gentling growl did its job and the curator ducked her head, almost blushing as she admitted, "There are Kahenys in the Markham family tree, but everyone seemed to believe that was coincidence, and that 'Kaheny' was just Katie's theatrical name."

Dean nodded, smile thin and grim as more puzzle pieces fell into place. "Sure they did. Delilah and Katie showed up in Rattlesnake from San Francisco, which is where the Markhams were from. And they settled down in The Baron Hotel, and got friendly enough that JT and Delilah had a picture taken together, one that looks almost exactly like one he took with his wife Agnes. What do you want to bet that he and Delilah knew each other pretty well from the good ol' days back in the City, and that JT Markham was little Katie's father?"

"No bet," Grace responded immediately, and Dean gazed across the basement at Katie and Quon-Jin, eying the child's ghost speculatively, letting the wheels in his head turn.

"But whether or not the gossip was true, everybody thought Delilah went crazy after Katie's murder, and that's why she stabbed JT. Then he ran downstairs and died in his wife's arms," he recalled aloud.

"Yes," Grace said again, and Katie's expression grew sorrowful.

Frowning, Dean struggled to make the right connections. If he closed his eyes, he could bring to life the specter of the distraught woman who had appeared in the Markhams' suite and stabbed himin the heart, vivid and livid in her red dress, bloodless cheeks somehow flushed with anger to match as she shrieked incoherently into his startled face.

But there had been words, punctuated with obscenities…

"_Give me—daughter!" she had shrilled, her harridan's voice piercing. "Own child, Ja—Mark—killed her!" _

Dean felt his eyes widen as he got the picture. "Oh, sweetheart," he murmured to himself, studying the little girl standing in the protective shadow of a Chinese drug-lord. "You're gonna sing me that same song, aren't you?"

"What?" Grace asked, leaning in to hear him, and Dean drew in a sustaining breath.

"Agnes killed them both," he announced, his voice rough with the realization, and Katie began to brighten. "Agnes killed Katie _and_ JT—crime of passion, I guess you'd call it—and then she made patsies out of Quon-Jin and Delilah. People believed her, or didn't mind believing her, anyway, so that's who they blamed. Isn't that right, Katie?"

Once more, the child's image flickered, and when she reappeared in front of him, Dean bent over, slow and without threat, until he could look directly into her eyes.

"I thought that was your mommy I saw with the knife, Katie," he told her seriously. "Everyone said that Delilah had killed JT Markham, and I had no reason to doubt it. Sure _looked_ like her, once I saw her picture and could put a name with the face. What I couldn't figure out was how Delilah could have crossed the salt-line. Spirits shouldn't be able to do that."

The little girl shook her head with a pout, and Dean quirked a smile.

"Yeah, I know you know. That's why you knocked, huh? To see if I'd come out and play. You've been leavin' your footprints everywhere, haven't you, including right outside my door."

He couldn't take bending any more, and Dean straightened with a muffled groan, throwing a quick glance at Quon-Jin, checking to make sure the ghost was behaving himself.

He kinda felt like Matlock, proving his client innocent, making his final, impassioned pitch in a TV episode's big climax: key witness on the stand and everybody in the courtroom leaning forward in fascination, hanging on his every word as he laid things out for them, wrapping up all the loose ends, leaving the jury no choice but to send the real killer to the chair.

_Not bad for a guy with blood still tricklin' down his face…._

"Thing is, the woman who took a stab at me looked an awful lot like Agnes, too," Dean said, sweeping his left arm out dramatically and nearly overbalancing because of it. He cleared his throat, hoping no one had noticed as the color rose in his cheeks. "And salt couldn't stop her, because the woman with the knife was Agnes, and she didn't _need_ to cross the salt-line; she was already right there in the room. She _died_ in that room, and then some part of her just never left. Her daughter Wren is still there, too—I heard her running; felt her bump against the bed. Salt wasn't gonna work against either of them, because they _both_ died in that room, were both already inside."

Dean dropped his volume, speaking gently now and only for Katie's benefit. "And ol' Agnes, she repeats your daddy's murder time and again, because of how hateful and sad she is. Isn't that right, Katie? Did I get that right?"

This time, Katie nodded, and Dean pressed his lips together, knowing what he was about to say would sound like a favor, and wondering at how far he'd come down his long, strange road to be doing favors for effing ghosts. _Jesus, what would Dad say about that?_

It didn't matter, though—not now. Dad was dead; black-and-white was for zebras and old movies; and right was right, whatever the circumstances.

"I can make sure that Agnes Markham and her little girl find some peace, Katie; so you can _all_ find some peace," Dean said, voice soft and sincere. "Would you like me to do that?"

Again the child's spirit nodded, and the light around her grew so that Dean had to narrow his eyes against it.

"Then I'll take care of it," he promised. "'Not my mommy' was right both times, sweetheart. You did real good, helpin' me and Grace understand what happened to you and to your friend Quon-Jin and to your daddy. Now? Now, you're free to go."

But suddenly Katie was twisting before him, a coy kitten, one finger still raised.

"Not my mommy," she whispered, her smile shy as she searched Dean's face with big brown eyes, twirling the finger in front of his nose.

_Oh._

To his astonishment, Dean felt his cheeks flush again, but she certainly wasn't the _first_ girl who'd had a crush on him. First dead one, maybe….

He returned Katie's smile warmly.

"I get it," he said to her, leaning down once more, still keeping his voice low so only the two of them could hear. "That was _your_ little tea party, up in your mama's room. I thought maybe Delilah was fallin' back into old habits, and it never crossed my mind that you were the one doin' the asking. Well, Katie-cat, that was real nice of you to invite me, and I'm sorry I had to decline."

Dean lifted a hand and raised his own index finger. For just a moment, the living and the dead touched, Katie beaming with bashful delight.

Quon-Jin stepped forward quietly then, arm outstretched, and Katie glanced back at him over her shoulder. With a final look at Dean, she skipped to the Chinese man, folding her hand into his. They were both smiling broadly as the light streaming from them became blinding, and Dean was forced to turn away, shielding his eyes against the inside of his elbow, Grace burying her face in her hands. When at last they could see again, the spirits were gone, faded into nothing.

"Where did they go?" Grace wondered softly beside him, and Dean could only shrug.

"I don't know. I hope they went to someplace better."

"I hope so, too."

The curator's voice was almost breathless, and he could tell that she was crying in silence once more. Still, she grasped his elbow gently, allowing him to balance against her while he straightened, making sure his knee wasn't going to buckle when he put his weight on it.

Then he turned to her, wanting to apologize, somehow, although he wasn't sure why. To his surprise, Dean found she was smiling, although her face shone with tears in the steady glow from the light overhead.

"Grace?"

She laughed, wiping her eyes as she explained. "Now Quon-Jin's family can venerate him, Junjei. Now I can honor my ancestor, and that's a wonderful blessing. Thank you."

Their kiss was slow and sweet and filled with promises Dean knew he could never keep, no matter what he might want. But there was comfort in it, and acceptance, and Dean felt locks being opened inside him, releasing things he'd kept imprisoned for a very long time. Then, at last, he drew back, his thumb brushing away the tears from her cheek.

"I think you have a story to tell me," she said, gazing up at him as Dean smiled curiously. "Something about salt, and a woman in your room with a knife?"

He chuckled but said nothing, bending with a pained groan to toss boxes aside until he found his handgun, moving stiffly to the far corner of the basement to retrieve the shotgun. Then he and Grace climbed the stairs together, one step at a time and hand in hand, pausing at the top to turn off the light.

"Why didn't Delilah speak up?" Grace asked, bemused. "She could have told them she didn't kill JT, but she never said a word. She spent the rest of her life in prison."

Dean shrugged, holding open the door into the joss house and ushering her through. His knee-brace lay beside the altar, and he grabbed it up, began strapping it back around his throbbing leg.

"I don't get it all, Grace," he said. "Maybe she just didn't care, after Katie died. And think about it. Delilah was nothing more than a glorified hooker, but Agnes owned the richest mine for miles around. It's like with Quon-Jin—which one of them was more apt to be believed? For my money, in both cases, it was Agnes."

"I guess there's discrimination of all kinds," Grace admitted sadly, and Dean nodded.

"You got that ri—" He broke off abruptly, startled by a call on his cell, somehow certain that whatever his brother had to say couldn't be good. "Excuse me; I gotta take this, and the charge is goin'. Sammy? What's happ--"

"_Help!_" A woman's voice cried. "_Oh, please, help! He said it's Clancy!_"

Dean's eyes widened, his brow furrowing with disbelief. "Who is this? Erica? Where's Sam?"

"_In the mine!_" the wailing voice cried loudly, and Grace looked at him in alarm. "_Sam's in the mine, and there's a…a man! Clancy! Sam said to tell you it was Clancy!_"

Grace put her hand on his arm, and Dean turned away slightly from the distraction of her touch, thinking fast. If Bull Clancy had shown up again at the mine, it meant that they'd missed something back at the cemetery…

"Erica! Calm down!" he ordered, lips thinning. "Are you at the North Cedar?"

He thought he heard a 'yes' amidst her sobs, but it didn't really matter. That's where Sam was, so that's where Dean was headed.

"Erica, stay where you are," he said roughly into the cell. "I'm on my way."

He snapped the phone shut, then took Grace firmly by the shoulders.

"Grace, I know Bull Clancy's song-book is in the museum. Is there anything else of his—something personal? Think hard!"

She shook her head quickly, startled. "Dean, the hymnal belonged to Leland Hartson. Does it matter?"

"The card said—" Understanding flared suddenly in Dean's green eyes. "You told me the cards were mixed up. What's in that display case that belonged to Clancy?"

"Um…" She was flustered, his vehemence making her first forgetful, then verbose, words rushing out of her in a stream. "His—his teeth! The wooden false teeth he wore when he first found color at North Cedar and Inishmurray. Before that, he couldn't afford real dentures. Hartson sometimes made jokes about them—said it was fitting for a horse's ass to be wearing horse's teeth!"

_Jesus Christ, _Dean thought_. How much more personal could you get than somebody's spit, and just how much of Bull Clancy's saliva had soaked into those teeth during the time he'd worn them, tying his spirit down exactly the same as bone and blood and hair would do?_

He bit down hard on another oath, his eyes boring into hers.

"Wasn't _anybody_ in this town buried in one piece?" he growled. "Sweetheart, you gotta open that case for me right now!"

-:- -:- -:-

Desperately, Sam reached into his jacket, withdrawing the little flask of holy water he had stashed there and holding on tight. It wasn't salt, and it wasn't iron, and never in his life had he heard that it had any effect on ghosts, but it was all he had.

Then, with no time to uncap the flask, he dodged again, stumbling over the uneven granite floor, keeping vague track of the gaping winze that might drop him straight through to whatever waited below the Forty-Eight.

He moved backward, eyes wide in the dark as Clancy leered at him, hefting the ax and lunging playfully at Sam as though it were a game.

"Aw, laddy, my laddy," the spirit chided, his tone mocking. "Yer a stinkin' high-grader, just like Hartson, and yeh know what happens to thieves in the mines."

Sam shook his head, gauging the distance as he replied, honestly, "Not really, no."

He flung the contents of the flask into Clancy's face, and the sniggering spirit vanished with a surprised howl that clearly indicated playtime was over, the pickax clattering to the ground at Sam's feet. Not wasting a moment, Sam grabbed it up, amazed when the rotted wooden handle crumbled in his grasp, the heavy head of the pick missing his toes by inches when it fell.

"_Haaaaaaaarrrrrrrtsonnnnn."_

Clancy's voice moaned deeply around him, and Sam heard Steve's answering shriek echoing up from the darkness to his right.

"Steve!" he shouted, knowing he couldn't leave the mine-owner unprotected. "Get back from the winze!"

He had no clear idea how much iron it took to ward off a ghost, nor how much holy water might be needed to adequately infuse an underground lake. But Sam had no other options. Still holding the flask, he knelt and grabbed up the pickax head with both hands, the malleable silver of the flask bending against the ax's unyielding iron heft. Then, moving quickly but carefully, Sam hauled his treasures to the gaping hole.

Beneath him, he could hear Steve's quiet sobs over the plashing of water as the mine-owner struggled to remain afloat.

"Steve, you've got to move away a little," Sam called to him. "I'm going to drop something down that'll keep you safe until I can get you out of there."

Steve whimpered wordlessly, but Sam could tell he was doing as asked.

"Okay!" the hunter said. "You're going to hear a big splash, but don't be afraid. It's iron—ghosts don't like it. You ready? Here it comes."

He pitched the pickax into the winze; heard the splash and Steve's startled cry.

"Steve? You okay?" Sam called down, and after a moment the mine-owner hesitantly responded.

So did Clancy.

"_Miiiinnne." _

The icy whisper reverberated through the vast darkness of the drift as a cold wind whipped around Sam. He quickly tossed the open silver flask down into the hole, hoping that whatever was left of the holy water inside would sanctify the lake below, keeping Steve safe.

Then, barehanded, Sam turned to face the angry spirit of Bull Clancy once again.

It was really no contest. With one sweep of his arm, Clancy sent Sam flying across the drift to slam into the stone wall on the far side. The safety helmet shattered, dropping to the ground in pieces, and Sam let out a gasp of shocked pain as the breath was knocked from him. Then Clancy flickered into sight before him and raised beefy spectral hands, gripping Sam's throat, squeezing tight. Sam struggled fruitlessly, pinned against the ice-cold granite as the spirit leaned in with a gap-toothed grin.

"Yeh won't be stealin' what's rightfully mine," Clancy sneered.

-:- -:- -:-

Dean couldn't wait for Grace after all, bursting into the museum in a frenzy that scattered the trio of Southern tourist-ladies like squawking hens and heading straight for the display case.

He raised the stock of the shotgun and smashed it into the side of the case, shattering the glass, shards like diamonds cascading to the floor as the women screamed.

"It's all right! It's all right!" he dimly heard Grace telling them as he reached for Bull Clancy's wooden dentures, gray and misshapen and obviously enough to tie the Irishman's spirit to Rattlesnake.

With his other hand, Dean scrabbled in his pocket for a salt-round, using his own teeth to twist the brass head off the plastic hull while his eyes roved, looking for—

_There!_

Of course there was a gold-pan in the museum—it was a mining town, after all—and Dean grabbed it out of the same exhibit where he'd found the shovel earlier. He threw the teeth into the pan and spat the shell-head and primer to the floor, limping hurriedly three steps to the nearest flat surface.

It was the display case of opium-smoking paraphernalia, and Dean set the gold-pan on it, upending the hull so that the gunpowder poured out in a tiny black pile onto the glass. Then he pulled out his pocket-knife and cut quickly across the top of the hull to remove the crimp, salt spilling out as he worked.

"Enjoy Nevada City!" he heard Grace say cheerfully as she shooed the clucking tourists out the front door, and Dean positioned the gold-pan the best he could, just beneath the top of the display case, sweeping the salt into it with the side of his hand.

He didn't think it was enough.

_Damn it!_ Dean dug another shell out of his pocket and repeated the process.

"Paper!" he demanded, and Grace flurried to the front counter, snatching up half a dozen flyers for the Scotchbroom Café and handing them to him quickly. She stood by breathlessly as Dean ripped the flyers into shreds and dropped them into the gold-pan until they covered the wooden teeth like confetti on the street at Mardi Gras. Then he added a pinch of gunpowder for good measure.

Hand flying again to his pocket, Dean withdrew his lighter, setting the paper quickly ablaze, nostrils flaring, his eyes wide and troubled.

God, he hoped he wasn't too late!

-:- -:- -:-

Bull Clancy pressed forward, leering into Sam's face, putting the strength of his body behind the strength of his hands, and Sam felt his consciousness fade, lungs collapsing, all his air expended.

Then, just as his eyelids fluttered shut, he saw Bull's broad smile twist into a grimace. The spirit's hold weakened, and with a desperate effort Sam tore himself free, falling to his hands and knees on the stone floor.

He rolled away quickly, landing painfully on his back, fighting to fill his lungs as the enraged ghost wheeled toward him, Clancy's scowl contorting even more before he screamed horribly, shriek echoing through the dark, vast drift. Then the Irishman vanished abruptly in a vivid flare of sparks and smoke.

Sam's hands shot to his chest and neck as he struggled to breathe, tiny gasps at first until his battered body relaxed enough that he could suck in huge drafts of oxygen. His head swam from the battering it had taken against the granite wall, the vertigo nearly overwhelming even though he lay prone on the hard stone floor.

It took several minutes before he could get his breathing to even out, the darkness around him to stop spinning. Then, after a few more moments, he staggered to his feet, still alert for the angry spirit's return until Sam realized at last that his message must have gotten through to Dean, and Dean had somehow managed to find something left to salt and burn.

Bull Clancy was finally gone.

With a bark of laughter, Sam lurched through the Forty-Eight toward the open winze, dropping to his knees when he thought he was close, fumbling in the pocket of his jeans for the little case of waterproof matches he kept there.

"Steve?" he called hoarsely, but there was no reply. Sam cursed, then struck a match, wincing at the sudden bright glare. The vertical shaft was maybe two yards in front of him, and he scrambled quickly to its lip before flame burnt his fingers. He dropped the match into the water below.

"Steve!" he called again, and thought he might have heard a whispered reply; Steve's strength and time were running out.

Swiftly, Sam struck another match, once again gauging the width and depth of the winze before he let the match fall. The shaft was roughly circular, wider than a man-hole cover and definitely deeper than his 6'4" frame, but by how much he could only guess. _Ten, twelve feet?_

"You better hurry up, brother," he said grimly into the darkness.

He stowed the match-case back in his pocket and sat on the lip of the winze, feet dangling momentarily until they found purchase on either side of the shaft-wall. Sam shoved off carefully, his feet braced, his broad shoulders both a help and a hindrance as he lowered himself slowly into the hole. At certain angles, if he spread his arms, his elbows hit the sides, but at last he was dangling by his fingertips. Finally, there was nothing else to do but take the plunge, and Sam let go.

He fell with a splash into water that was cold and oily and deep. His feet never touched bottom before he was using arms and legs to propel himself back to the surface, careful not to move to either side as he swam up, so as not to lose the winze above him. Careful, too, not to come up so fast he knocked himself silly against the ceiling of the drift or tunnel or whatever it was he had jumped into.

He surfaced with a sputter into pitch dark, one hand immediately finding stone directly overhead at half an arm's-length, the other flailing into emptiness before his grasping fingers found the bottom lip of the open winze.

"Oh, thank God," Sam sighed heavily. He took a moment to catch his breath again, blinking water from his lashes and tossing dripping hair from his face, recoiling suddenly when something foreign brushed against his cheek.

It was the long-sleeved shirt he had dropped earlier, somehow still lying on the water's surface. Sam grabbed it before it could sink away into the depths, tying it loosely around his neck.

"Steve?" he called cautiously, dreading what he might find in the wet, surrounding dark. "Steve, it's Sam—can you hear me?"

For what seemed a very long time, there was no response, but then Sam heard a little splash from somewhere to his left, and then a hesitant cry.

"Help!" Steve's voice was faint and fading, and for a terrifying moment, Sam thought the mine-owner would slip away from him.

"Steve!" he called again, louder this time, his voice echoing through the darkness. "Where are you?"

There was the sound of more soft splashing maybe twenty feet away, then a gasp.

"Here, Sam," the mine-owner rasped. "I'm here."

"I can't come get you," Sam said urgently. "I'm right under the winze, and I don't want to lose it. Can you swim to me?"

By stretching straight up out of the water, Sam could reach into the narrow opening up to his forearms, his fingers scraping the sides, seeking any kind of crevice or rough place where he might get a grip.

"Where are you?" Steve asked, and it was clear from his voice that his fear and panic had worn him out.

"I'm right here," Sam replied soothingly. "Just follow my voice. Is this a drift? How far down are we?"

The water lapped against him as Steve approached, finally reaching Sam's side and grabbing at his tee-shirt, fingers accidentally scratching against Sam's cheek and ear.

"Easy!" Sam said, ducking away instinctively and nearly losing contact with the mouth of the winze. "Just tread water. You're tired, so float on your back. You know how to do that, right? Okay. So, so long as one of us stays under the hole so we know where it is, we'll be fine. Steve, this is a drift, right? It's right under the Forty-Eight—do you have any idea where we are?"

He hoped the sound of his voice would help focus Steve, keep him calm and alert, get them out of wherever the hell they were. But the mine-owner sighed, and Sam could tell that his kicks underwater were weakening.

The young hunter brought one arm down out of the opening to grip Steve's shoulder firmly. "You're wearing yourself out, man. Calm down, okay? Just float on your back for a minute to catch your breath."

Sam gave Steve a gentle push, and after some initial resistance, Steve eased onto his back.

"Don't let me go!" the mine-owner said, and Sam tightened his grip on Steve's shirt.

"I'm right here. You're fine."

"Okay," Steve murmured, apparently to himself as he took in deep, calming breaths. "Okaaaay, okaaaay. I'm fine. I think…this must be…the Fifty-Two."

"So it's a drift. Can we walk up the tunnel? Get back to the Forty-Eight that way?" Sam asked. The water against bare skin was slimy, somehow, and he didn't like at all how it felt, leaching up out of the ground from who knew how far below them.

"I don't know where it is," Steve said into the darkness. "I've never been down here, because it was flooded by the time I was born. We'll never find the passage without a light."

"All right, then. 'Up' is our only option."

Sam thought swiftly, his hand still tight in Steve's shirt.

"Hey. Hey, Steve, give me this."

"What?"

"I'm gonna let you go for a second, but you need to take off your shirt, okay? Look, we need a way to stay connected, so I'm gonna tie the sleeves together with mine—"

"Don't let me go!" Steve cried, scrabbling wildly, grabbing a fistful of Sam's hair in one hand and his tee-shirt in the other.

"Ow! Steve! Cut it out! I'm right here!"

The mine-owner's brief panic subsided, and finally he loosened his grip.

"Yeah. Sorry," he murmured. "Sorry. I'm just losing it, is all."

"'S'okay. C'mon, now. Give me your shirt."

Sam slowly released his hold on Steve's shoulder—Steve seemed calmer, and okay with it—then untied the shirt from around his own neck. "It'll be like belaying, man. Like for rock-climbers."

"Belaying?" Steve repeated stupidly, and Sam nodded, although he knew Steve couldn't see him.

"Sure. I need you on one end and me on the other, so you can make sure I don't fall when I climb up."

It was nonsense, of course, but Sam was mostly talking to give the frightened man something to focus on other than the apparent hopelessness of their situation. Whatever, it seemed to be working. He could tell from the sound, the bump of water against him, that Steve was obeying orders, and in a moment a wet bundle of fabric was pushed into his face.

"That's great, Steve. Thanks."

It was difficult dealing with the wet material, but Sam soon had the shirts tied together.

"All right. Here, take this end," he said, finding Steve's hand and placing a knotted cuff into it before drawing his own knee up in the water and tying the other end of the makeshift rope around his ankle. To climb back up to the Forty-Eight, he'd need both hands free. "Now give me a little room."

As the mine-owner pulled away, Sam reached up again to find the inner walls of the winze, pressing his palms flat against the sides, taking several deep breaths as he prepared for what came next.

"Oh, Jesus, Sam!" Steve moaned. "We're gonna die down here!"

Kicking mightily to give himself as much reach as possible, Sam rose out of the water, straight up into the vertical shaft as far as he could go.

"We are not—"

He fell back with a splash. _If he could just get enough height, he could wedge himself into the hole, work his way up it._

He tried again instantly.

"Gonna—"

And fell back again. With one more tremendous effort, he surged from the water, jamming elbows immediately bloody against either side of the winze, pressing his forearms against the stone, forcing his body up into the granite cavity.

"Die!" he shouted. "Steve! Push!"

He felt the mine-owner's hands on his knees, then on his lower legs, hoisting him higher into the air as Steve momentarily sank below the water's surface. Sam's feet found Steve's shoulder, then his head, forcing Steve under even further, but giving Sam the impetus he needed to wedge himself elbows-to-wrists against the walls of the shaft, his upper arms perpendicular to his body.

He kicked hard, straining to haul himself up; felt Steve's hands again on his feet; got a mighty shove that gained him another three inches, with the weight of his shoulders just barely above his elbows now.

His feet were still dragging in the water, his shoulders and arms quaking with the effort of holding himself in mid-air, and Sam raised his knees as high as he could. Then, with a furious cry, he jammed his arms even harder into the walls, straining against gravity, kicking frantically to rise. His muscles were screaming now, the cords in his neck knotted with the agonizing effort of lifting himself up. If only—

_Yes!_

His left knee caught the wall just inside the bottom of the winze, giving him a third point of contact. He pushed harder, up through his knee, gaining height and torquing his body so that now his back pressed against one wall.

Gasping with effort, Sam dragged his right leg up until his heel was planted against the wall beneath his ass, water streaming from his sodden clothes and shoes, toes still hanging out of the hole in mid-air. With another groan, he pushed against his right foot, raising himself higher still.

It was enough so that he could free his left knee, scrabbling, catching the far wall with the toes of his left foot. He shifted quickly, both hands now also pressed against the far wall, pushing up with his arms and legs until he was almost in a standing position, back and one foot against one wall, hands and the other foot against the opposite wall.

"I'm up!" he yelled excitedly, feeling the burn in every muscle, the intense sting of shredded skin on his elbows, his knees. "Steve! You hear me?"

Steve's answer was quiet, barely more than a whisper. "Sam? I don't know how long I can do this…."

Sam looked down instantly, although there was nothing to see in the darkness. He knew from the drag of the shirts against his ankle that the mine-owner no longer had hold of his end, but that shouldn't matter, if only--

"Don't you quit on me, Steve!" Sam ordered fiercely. "You keep treading water! We're going to get out of this!"

Instantly, Sam switched feet, placing his right foot on the opposite wall at knee height, planting his left foot on the back wall under his backside. He moved his hands up, and pushed again, mostly through his thighs and calves this time. Again, he gained height.

He knew the winze was only twelve, maybe fifteen feet deep; assuming it didn't widen significantly somewhere in the middle, he had every confidence he could work his way up out of it and into the Forty-Eight. Sam was suddenly, consciously grateful for his long legs.

"Steve, you stay with me, do you hear?" he ordered again.

"_---aaaaaam!"_

It was his brother's voice, floating miraculously from overhead, almost making him gasp with surprise although he'd known Dean would come.

"_Saaaaammmy!"_

"Dean!" he cried with relief. "Dean, we're down here! Can you hear me?"

Dean was definitely getting nearer.

"_Keep talkin', Sam!"_

"Be careful, Dean—there's a hole! Steve, it's Dean! It's gonna be all right! Just float if you're tired, all right, man? You're gonna be fine!"

Then there was a lessening of the blackness at the top of the winze, and in another moment, Sam was blinded briefly by the beam of Dean's flashlight before Dean angled it away against the shaft-wall. The reflected light caught the older Winchester's pallid face about half a dozen feet above, and Sam watched the haggard anxiety bleed out of it when Dean saw that his little brother was all right.

"Hello, Alice!" Dean said, his Cheshire cat grin growing, white in the near-darkness.

"Dude," Sam scolded amiably in reply, his own smile broadening immensely, eyes on his brother's while Dean rummaged one-handed in a bag he was carrying. "Where's your safety helmet?"

"Ah, now, don't be pissy, Sammy," came the response, "not when I brought you a present."

Sam thought he had never seen a prettier rope.

-:- -:- -:-

_One more chapter to go. Thanks for reading! Comments are welcomed._


	11. Chapter 11

**Rush**

**Chapter Eleven**

Sam dropped back down into the water after Steve, taking one end of the rope with him while Dean held onto the other. Between the brothers, they got the semi-conscious mine-owner hauled out of the flooded drift and on dry ground. Then it was Sam's turn, and he was soon standing in the near darkness of the Forty-Eight, lit only by Dean's flashlight, bloodied fingers trembling as he loosened the knot on the noose and let the sodden rope fall to his feet in a growing puddle.

He was soaked and exhausted, head pounding, flesh abraded in more places than he had sense left to count, and he staggered against the uneven granite floor. Dean grabbed at him quickly as Sam's balance faltered, and for a few seconds Sam was leaning into his big brother's embrace, his own arms flung around Dean's sturdy shoulders, his eyes closing tight with relief.

"Gotcha, Sammy," Dean murmured, holding his little brother securely for just a moment before releasing him, shifting his grip to the nape of Sam's neck, pulling him gently forward a couple of steps. "C'mon, get away from the edge of that thing. You okay?"

Sam breathed a short laugh. "Yeah, I think so. What about you?"

"I'm good. Hey—so, Clancy?"

""Yeah. What'd we miss?"

"Teeth in the museum."

"Gross."

"Tell me about it. Steve, c'mon, man—we're getting out of here."

Dean stuffed the wet rope back into the duffel he was carrying, and then the Winchesters hoisted the mine-owner to his feet and propped him between them, his arms over the brothers' shoulders.

It was an arduous trek back up the tunnel, Steve stumbling frequently and Dean not much better off. Sam either, for that matter, so mostly they concentrated on moving forward without falling. Finally, though, they could see the glow of the carbon lamps in the Thirty-Six, hear the generator's growl, and Steve whimpered with exhausted elation.

"I don't know, Sam," Dean was saying as they entered the upper drift. "Holy water against a ghost?"

"I've never read or heard anything about it, either, but it might be worth looking into," Sam countered. "Hey, wait, Dean—wait. We've got to re-set the wards here; something happened with them, and they didn't work. What's in the bag?"

Dean shrugged tiredly. "Kitchen sink."

They dumped Steve down in a heap beside the tunnel entrance before Sam took the duffel from his brother's shoulder and unzipped it, quickly pawing past the rope and the camp-shovel, the guns and the—

"Dean. Dynamite?"

Sam held the single red stick aloft, his eyebrows climbing.

"I didn't know what I'd need," the older man replied, his tone defensively innocent.

"Oh, here." Sam tossed over a piece of thick white chalk. "I think the lines just weren't thick enough. Re-mark the sigils, wouldja? One here, and one over there. I'll get the other two. Hey, Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Erica was okay?"

"Grace was with her. So, just draw over what you've already got here, right? This isn't from Dad's journal—where'd you get this, Sammy? Bobby show you? Looks kinda like a Kabbalah pentagram, except for whatever this little dog-thing is down here on the left…"

Sam never even noticed that his question had gone unanswered.

-:- -:- -:-

Steve was almost incoherent from cold and exhaustion when they hauled him out of the mine collar between them, Dean limping very badly by this time, Grace and Erica waiting for them there in the gravel yard. Grace hurriedly grabbed a tatty quilt from the back of her little SUV to drape warmly around Steve, while Dean propped Sam against the hood of the Impala and found an old blanket from the trunk. Sam was still pretty wet, but he pulled away from Dean's ministrations clumsily to approach Erica, who stood aloof, watching with dark, sullen eyes.

"Erica," Sam said, voice tight with concern, "are you okay?"

She shied instantly, making it abundantly clear that she wanted nothing more to do with any of it; wanted nothing more than to get out of Rattlesnake and never think about it or the North Cedar Mine or ghosts or Sam Winchester ever again. She was trembling again so hard she could barely open the door of her truck, wrenching away when Sam tried to help her.

"Erica, please—you shouldn't be alone," he pleaded with her. "Stay here tonight, in the hotel. I promise you, you'll be safe, and things will look better in the morning."

"You _knew_ about it!" she spat acidly, turning on him, glowering venomously. "You knew about that—that _thing_, somehow. You let me go down there, and you never said a word!"

"Erica, I'm sorry! I—" Sam gaped helplessly at her, floored by the hatefulness in her voice. "I swear I didn't know that anythi—"

She was crying, now, her voice guttural with anger and fear, her face contorting with growing rage. "I've never been through anything like that in my entire life! How'm I going to be able to…my God, my _job_! How can I—I don't—everything I've prepared for! Is it _over_? I was scared, Sam—so fucking _scared_! My hands were shaking so bad—look, they still are!—I couldn't…I couldn't…. Oh, my God, the mine! What if I can't ever go back into a—_fuck_! It's all I've ever _wanted_, and now? Now you've ruined it _all_!"

She hurled his cell phone at his chest, Sam trapping it almost unconsciously with one quick hand as it bounced off him, reaching out to her with the other.

"Erica, no—no, don't say that! Please, I can explain, and things'll look different in the morning. I promise."

He knew as he spoke them that the words were hollow, meaningless, but he had nothing better to offer. It was clear that she knew, too.

Mouth ugly with emotion, Erica glared at him for a long and horrible moment, eyes wet and raw, her voice dropping with bitter contempt. "Get away from me, Sam. Don't you ever come near me again."

Then she shrank from him until Grace finally stepped in and put a protective arm around her shoulders.

_How had it all gone so wrong so fast?_

Sam turned in silent entreaty to his brother, stunned. Dean's lips thinned as he met Sam's eyes, shook his head slightly, sorrowfully. They weren't going to win this one.

"Do you want me to drive you home, Erica?" Grace asked gently. "Will you be all right there?"

"_All right_?" Erica hissed. "Tell me how I can be _all right_."

Grace prized the key out of her hand and steered her around to the other side of the Yukon, helping her settle into the passenger seat. When she was clear, Erica reached out and slammed the door shut, locking it immediately.

"Why's she blaming you?" Steve Hartson asked testily, teeth chattering although it was not cold. He was having his own difficulty dealing with the afternoon's events—feeling a little odd, almost drunk—but the state inspector's vehement reaction was shocking. "It's not like you made Clancy try to kill us. Hell, Sam, you saved my life!"

Sam blinked, slow to shake off his astonishment. But he got it. Really, he did.

"She's afraid and angry, Steve. She doesn't understand what happened, and if she can rationalize it somehow by thinking I'm responsible, if that helps her cope, then…I guess I'm okay with that."

_If they'd just gotten Clancy the first time…._

"Junjei, can someone please follow us to Erica's place and give me a ride back home?" Grace asked Dean, her voice soft. "I don't think it should be Sam."

Sam looked down at his sodden, torn clothing and made a face. "No, I'll do it. I need to see that she's all—"

Grace cut him off. "Sam. Erica's afraid of what has happened tonight, and it all revolves around you. It will upset her more if she knows that you're following, and that you know where she lives."

He ducked his head, feeling his cheeks burn as blood rushed to them, and Grace understood instantly.

"Oh," she murmured so that only he could hear. "Sam, I'm sorry. You're not to blame."

Sam felt Dean's eyes on him still, and looked up to see his brother offering tacit sympathy and regrets. Again. Sam grimaced, turning away briefly.

_Chalk another one up for Sam Winchester, major loser._

But that wasn't right, and he knew it. He caught Dean's eyes again, needing the backup, grateful that Dean, as always, came through in spades, offering Sam the solid moral support the younger man had known he would find in his brother's quiet gaze. Support, and a silent appeal that Sam forgive himself, because nothing he could have done would have made things any different.

"No," Sam said finally, accepting that things were what they were. "No one's to blame."

Still, it felt like a lie.

For a moment, then, it looked like Steve would be the one who followed the women to Erica's house, but no sooner had the decision been reached than the mine-owner's eyes rolled into the back of his head and he slumped to the ground in a dead faint. The delayed reaction only lasted a few moments before Steve was back on his feet, shaky and embarrassed, but it was clear that someone had to stay in Rattlesnake to keep an eye on him.

"Fuck!" Dean growled in aggravation. "Look, let me just—" He bent down to unlock the hinge on his brace, but Sam stopped him immediately.

"Dean, take Steve back to the hotel and get off that leg!" he ordered, brooking no disagreement, even when Erica leaned across the front seat of the GMC and honked the horn impatiently.

"Shall we go, then, Sam?" Grace asked, and Sam nodded, moving to the Impala as Grace got into the Yukon's driver's seat beside Erica.

"Be careful on the road, both of you!" Dean commanded over the sound of the engines turning over. Grace gave him a little wave, but Sam was staring straight ahead, grip fierce on the steering wheel.

_Little brother, all wound up tighter than ever_.

Dean watched them go, expressionless for a moment as the cars pulled away, then turned to Steve, who was still looking a bit wobbly. The hunter made a rapid assessment, then donned his best game-face.

"So, Steve-o," he said jovially. "Who's going to drive us back to town, Fainting Boy or the Gimp? My money's on the Gimp."

-:- -:- -:-

Sam parked the Impala out on the street, then walked quickly into the empty courtyard through the front gate just in time to see the two women enter Erica's second-floor apartment. Grace spotted him and gave him a wan smile, but if Erica had seen him, she gave no sign.

He thought he was probably lucky no one else saw him, either, because he was a mess. The knees of his jeans were torn out, skin there and at his elbows and forearms raw and bloodied, long hair slack and in his face from its dousing in the slimy groundwater of the North Cedar. He definitely didn't look like the type of guy you'd want to see hanging around your house or your building. Fortunately, nobody seemed to be coming or going in the apartment complex.

He spent the next hour mostly standing, sometimes pacing or sitting in one of the deck chairs by the pool, eyes pinned on the curtained windows of Erica's living room, where shadows occasionally passed.

His cell buzzed a few times—Dean, checking up on him—but he let the calls go unanswered.

Finally, the lights inside the apartment went out and Grace emerged, closing the door quietly behind her before heading along the walkway and down the stairs, Sam standing anxiously as she joined him.

"Will she talk to me?" he asked at once, although he already knew the answer, unsurprised when Grace shook her head. "I could apologize—"

"She's not ready, Sam. I think she knows you're not to blame, but she's having a hard time coming to terms with what she experienced today. It might take her a very long time to get over it."

Sam nodded eagerly. "Right, and I think I could _help _her! I could explain—"

Grace put a hand on his arm.

"Sam."

For a long moment, Sam could think of nothing more to say. He looked up again at the dark apartment, then to the dark sky overhead, huffing a mirthless laugh.

"What about the inspection report?" he asked finally, his voice flat and hopeless. "What's going to happen to the North Cedar?"

Grace sighed, shrugging her shoulders eloquently. "I think the best Steve can hope for is that Erica's paperwork gets lost. He can schedule another inspection later. I told her I would call her in the morning—we can talk about it then."

It was almost more than he could take to see the sympathy in her eyes, and Sam clenched his jaw before another laugh forced itself from him.

"She wasn't even supposed to be down in the Forty-Eight. And Clancy? He was supposed to be _gone_."

"I know, Sam, and I'm so, so sorry."

The trip back to Rattlesnake was silent except for the deep rumble of the Impala's mighty engine.

-:- -:- -:-

Basically, the plan was to get Steve drunk. At least enough to get him past the shakes and the terror, let him sleep, get a fresh take on things in the morning.

Dean had figured it would take maybe a bottle, maybe a little less, to take care of business, but four shots of Scotch had Steve listing seriously to starboard on the lobby couch, while Dean found some extra blankets for him and got the gas fireplace going.

Steve had been nervous, at first, to be left anywhere on his own, but his clothes were still damp and no way in hell Dean was gonna babysit him in the shower so he could warm up. Wouldn't fit into either of the Winchesters' clothes, anyway, so blankets and a fire it was, not to mention the whiskey.

Right now, the mine-owner had a shot in one hand and his head in the other, elbow propped sloppily on the arm of the couch.

"Y'ever heard of anything like this before?" he asked.

"Like what?"

"I mean, somebody wanting revenge so bad he'd come back from the dead and go after innocent people, years later."

Dean cleared his throat, sitting back in an easy chair and stretching his aching leg out straight in front of him, his boot up on the reproduction coffee table.

"Well, yeah. That's kind of what they do, some ghosts. They start mad, and then the mad just doesn't go away, you know? It lingers"—the word sounded strange in his mouth, and Dean paused, reaching for the whiskey bottle—"and sometimes it gets worse. Doesn't matter who they hurt, mostly; they just wanna hurt _some_body, innocent or not."

"I dunno, Dean." Steve's words were beginning to slur, and he had one eye half-closed as he waved his shot-glass at the room at large. "This guy was holdin' a grudge against me, jus' 'cause I'm a Hartson. Like he was a…a fam'ly _curse_, or somethin'."

Damned if Steve didn't giggle, then, although he was scowling mightily, drawing himself up straight on the couch with a sharp belch.

"'A plague on both your houses!'" he called out in a stentorian voice, and Dean leaned forward sharply, patting the air between them with one hand, glancing quickly around the lobby and parlor.

"Heyheyhey! Steve! Don't do that!"

"'S a curse," Steve replied blandly as he relaxed, finally landing his empty glass on the table and pulling his blankets closer around him.

"Yeah, I know it's a curse, and I also know the trouble you managed to raise down in your mine without hardly tryin'. God knows what you might raise around _here_. Remember what I said about bein' careful who you drink with?"

"I am drinking," Steve said very precisely, nailing every syllable, "with you. Anyway, you an' your brother…you know a lot about things like what happened in the mine, with that ghost an' me."

It was not a question, and Dean couldn't deny it.

"Yeah, sure—there are a few kinds of spirits that latch on to a family, and sometimes it's ghosts. Thing is, you don't have to worry about this one, anymore, all right? Clancy's gone, for good."

"Thanks to you and Sam. Hey. Hey, Dean. Seriously, you guys really saved my bacon, an' I owe you. You guys sure as hell know your business. Guess you've had some practice, huh?"

Dean took a long, slow pull on the bottle, feeling the whiskey burn its way down his throat and into his belly, thinking about curses, about families. About the Hartsons, and the Markhams. The Chins.

The Winchesters.

_(he said that I might have to kill you, Sammy)_

"Everybody's family is a little cursed, Steve," Dean said finally, staring into the fire. "Me and Sam, we just know how to deal with it."

-:- -:- -:-

After Steve finally passed out, cozy in front of the fire, Dean tried Sam on his cell again, but this time the call didn't even go through.

"Huh."

Dead battery.

He knew Sam was hurting, not just because of his encounter with Bull Clancy, or climbing up and down that damn hole at the bottom of the North Cedar Mine. No, truth was, the biggest damage to Sammy today was to his ridiculously enormous heart, because of that girl, Erica. Sam would blame himself for everything--for not ending Clancy at the cemetery, for Steve taking the mine inspector down past where she really needed to go, for...aw, hell, for everything. The big mook would take all her oaths and glares and tears to heart, and somehow convince himself that he'd been the cause of them all.

As far as Dean was concerned, in the greater scheme of things? His little brother had been a big damn hero today. Par for the course for a Winchester, sure, but a hero nonetheless. And that chick just needed to get a grip.

'Cept none of that would help Sammy, so the next plan was to get him out of town and focused on somethin' else just as soon as possible....

Dean struggled up out of the chair and limped tiredly down the hall, letting himself into the suite and yawning widely as he rounded the foot of his bed, headed for the phone-charger on the nightstand.

The prescription bottle of oxycodone sat there also, but Dean ignored it, although his knee was aching like a sonofabitch. He wanted to stay sharp until Sam was back home and everything was all right. Even then, they had some more work to do.

He plugged his cell into the power unit, then rummaged under the other bed and found Sam's duffel, unzipping it and easily finding the worn, familiar leather of their dad's journal stashed at the bottom. It felt warm in his hands, and he opened it with a snap, dumping Sam's duffel to the floor and sinking down onto his own bed, swiveling his legs up onto the quilted coverlet and fidgeting until his back rested against the pillows and the headboard.

The brace came off quickly and Dean thought for a moment about icing his knee, but he was just too tired to get up again. Instead, he settled back and began leafing through the copious arcane notes of supernatural lore that John Winchester had passed on to his sons as his legacy. If there wasn't an entry about ghosts being allergic to holy water, then Dean would make his own notes, back in the section where Sam had started to add to their father's handwritten estate.

He must have dozed off, because his entire body jerked suddenly and he gasped aloud, the journal falling from his lap to the floor. Dean blinked dazedly around the empty room, then rubbed a hand into his eyes to clear the sleep from them. A quick look at his watch showed him it was almost one-thirty in the morning.

_Still no Sam._

He turned to the nightstand, swinging his left leg over the side of the bed, leaving his bum knee stretched out straight on the coverlet as he pulled his phone from the charger. It rang in his hand, and he opened it quickly.

"Hey."

Five minutes later, there wasn't anything more to say, and Dean ended the call, closing his cell slowly, a line of sad thought etched between his brows. Then his frown deepened, eyes on the phone's front display. The charge indicator was changing as he watched, showing power draining away like beer from an overturned bottle. In seconds, the battery was dead.

Then the room went cold, lights flickering, and Dean stood hastily as Agnes Markham appeared once again beside his bed near the door, in the same place she had shown herself to him just two nights earlier.

She looked exactly as she had before, wearing the red dressing gown that displayed her cleavage, hair framing her face in shiny, dark tendrils as she stood quivering with outrage and grief, eyes flashing as she cursed bitterly. This time, every acid-laced word was audible.

"You miserable, whoring, pathetic excuse for a man!"

Thing was, whoever she was looking at, whoever was the target for the stream of vile epithets she spat, it sure as hell didn't seem to be Dean…

Even when he moved around the foot of his bed, her eyes didn't track him, and Dean knew for certain then that she was residual energy—well, he was pretty sure, anyway, even if it meant that Sam had been right, and that Dean had fainted the first time she'd shown up.

_Big wussy_.

But if this was residual energy he was seeing and hearing, then why the temperature drop? Why the flickering lights?

"I hope you rot in hell, you lying, weak-willed, cheating son of a whore!" Agnes raged, delivering her tirade to a spot just to Dean's left.

Night before last, he'd been certain she had stabbed him. 'Course, he'd been certain she was Delilah Reardon, too, instead of JT Markham's lovely little mass-murdering turtle dove of a wife.

_So, no._

_No_. Dean had been wrong or slow about too many things on this job already, and damned if he wasn't going to figure this thing out once and for all by giving ol' Agnes the ultimate acid test.

With that, he stepped in front of her, positioning himself exactly so that the venom she spewed was aimed directly at him, her eyes glaring savagely straight into his. _Oh, if he was wrong about this, Sammy was going to be really pissed…_

This time he knew the knife was in her hand, hidden by the folds of her skirt, and this time he heard every syllable of the words she hurled.

"Give me back my daughter!" Agnes shrieked, overcome with the insanity of grief and betrayal as she confronted the man who stood in her philandering husband's place. "I want _my_ daughter! Katie Kaheny was your own child, James Markham—your daughter with that slut—and I _killed_ her! Now it's _your_ turn to die!"

"Go ahead, darlin'," Dean murmured, standing tall and taking a deep, sharp breath. "You're no different from all the rest."

He thought he was prepared, but Dean's eyes still widened as she raised the knife to drive it into his heart once again.

-:- -:- -:-

In the light of a waning moon just past full, Sam unlocked the front door of The Baron Hotel and slipped quietly into the front lobby.

He had taken Grace back to the North Cedar so she could get her car, then followed her home to make sure she arrived safely. She lived out of town on a narrow, winding road, so it had taken a while to get there.

Then, after he'd seen her inside, Sam had just sat in the Impala for a while, thinking.

About nothing, really, thoughts circling in his head without landing anywhere, like seabirds far from shore, with nowhere to roost. All he knew was that he was left feeling kind of hopeless, kind of sorry for himself, and incredibly beat.

Now, it was just past two o'clock in the morning.

The lamp on the registration desk was on, and Steve Hartson was snoring lustily from the couch in front of the fireplace. The shot-glass and mostly-empty whiskey bottle on the coffee table nearby indicated that the mine-owner probably wasn't feeling any pain.

"Dean?" Sam called softly, but there was no sign of his brother in either the lobby or the parlor other than a second shot-glass sitting beside the lamp on the front desk. It, too, was mostly empty.

"Wuzza?!" Steve shouted suddenly, floundering up from sleep, staring wildly at Sam with his hair askew. "Who's there?!"

"Hey, Steve, take it easy! It's just me—it's Sam!"

Steve belched once, tiny, then belched again, deeper, from the diaphragm.

"Sam?"

"Yeah, it's me. Where's Dean?"

"Went to bed."

With that, the mine-owner lay back down on the couch and was snoring again in seconds.

Sam quirked a grin, shaking his head, then shuffled down the hallway, his smile falling away almost instantly.

_Tell me how I can be all right_…

Dean was in the bathroom, and poked his head out immediately when Sam let himself into their suite.

"Hey," the older man said through a mouthful of toothpaste, measuring his brother quickly, lips tightening briefly around his toothbrush as Sam's sorrow filled the room.

_Aw, Sammy._

"Erica okay?" Dean asked, trying for casual, already knowing the answer to his real question.

"Yeah. I guess," Sam replied, shrugging out of his jacket and throwing it negligently over the arm of the settee. He really didn't feel like talking; wanted more than anything just to sink into sleep, forget this day had ever happened, but he'd known Dean would be concerned.

"Grace seems nice," he offered benignly, sitting in a chair at the dining table and working to get his shoes off. He was so tired, the task was almost beyond him, and he stopped after getting the laces untied.

"She got home okay." It wasn't a question, but Dean wasn't sure Sam had really even heard him. The younger Winchester sat unmoving, shoulders hunched, gaze pinned on some point near the floor.

"Sam?"

After another moment spent waiting, Dean rolled his eyes and threw his toothbrush down on the sink-counter, spitting and rinsing quickly. He'd left the brace off, and now he limped cautiously to the dining table, easing himself into the chair across from his brother.

"Hey, you want a beer?"

Other than a slight shake of Sam's tousled head, there was no response, and Dean sniffed, scratching at the back of his neck before trying another tack.

"So, when the Markhams get back from their cruise, you think we should tell them that Mitch's old aunt Aggie was a mass murderer?" he asked, his tone light.

That got through a little. Sam blinked, horizontal lines appearing on his forehead.

"What?"

"Yeah. Seems that, after her daughter died, Agnes Markham killed another little girl and blamed the murder on a Chinese opium dealer, who got hanged for it. Started a race riot. Then Agnes stabbed her own husband right in this room, and told everybody that Delilah Reardon had done it. Delilah—who, by the way, was the second little dead girl's mother—anyway, she spent the rest of her life in prison for a crime she didn't commit."

Sam blinked again, his gaze finally tracking up and over to where Dean sat opposite him.

"What?" he repeated, using a little more energy this time, and Dean snorted a laugh.

"Turns out JT and Delilah had known one another back in the day—and I do mean they'd _known_ one another, in the Biblical sense—and had a daughter together, named Katie. Eventually they all came west and ended up in Rattlesnake, in this hotel. When Agnes lost her own daughter, then found out that Katie was JT's kid, she kinda freaked. I don't know, maybe she wasn't even all there to begin with. Left a lot of blood in her wake, anyway."

Sam's gaze had sharpened considerably, and his lips had tightened into a thin line.

"Dean, you know this _how_, exactly?"

Dean raised his eyebrows innocently. "It's nothing to worry about, Sammy. I'll fill you in on the details later. Important thing is, one kid and the Chinese guy have moved on, I think, now that we know who the real killer is. Was? Whatever. You were right, by the way, about Agnes being residual."

Sam's eyes narrowed and he rolled a hand, so Dean kept talking.

"I thought it was Delilah who stabbed me, at first, because of the story, you know, and because they look so much alike, but it was definitely Agnes. Ol' gal showed up again tonight with her knife; went through the exact same routine. I just happened to be standing in the sweet-spot that first time—tonight, I wasn't, and she never batted an eye. Just did her Norman Bates thing, slashing away at nothing."

_So what if there were parts of the story he was leaving out. Sammy'd never know, and what were a few little secrets between brothers?_

"How come we didn't know our own room was haunted?" Sam asked, more than a little vexed, and his brother scoffed.

"Because Psychic Wonder-Boy was never here!" Dean said, spreading his arms wide, relieved at the change of topics. "Sam, you've spent this whole gig either down in that mine or chasing some tai—uh, talking with your old school buddy, and I've been zoned on fucking painkillers half the time. I shoulda known, 'cause it happened to Dad once back in--I don't know, Ohio, I think, and I caught all kinds of hell for it--but it took me until tonight to figure out that the EMF meter just wasn't gettin' any juice. Man, we've been playing with so many major friggin' spirits in this town—I mean, think about it. Bull Clancy, Quon-Jin, Aggie Markham, even little Katie—they were all working some heavy-duty mojo, and they drained every battery we had, even the new ones."

The younger man nodded thoughtfully. "Yeah, I had the meter with me in the mine that first morning—I think it went off when the ghost mule showed up and that's about it. But I put fresh batteries in."

"Oh, I did, too, more than once. Didn't matter."

"Wow." Sam stared vacantly at nothing in particular across the room. "Think we're slipping?"

"Hell no. We're alive, aren't we? The ghosts are toast, but everybody else survived. Thing is, though, we'd be smart to stop relying so much on equipment and start engaging our thinkers a little more."

Dean tapped a finger against his temple, but he'd lost Sam's attention again. He surveyed the marks on his brother's face and hands and knees critically, deeming them survivable, then ducking his head a little to check the younger man's downcast eyes. _Aw, hell. Looked like they still had a long night ahead of them…_

"Anyway," he concluded, "before you get too settled, we've got some digging to do before daylight. A killer, a kid, and a Gold Rush pop-star out at the Founders Cemetery, plus a queue at the Chinese temple down the street."

Sam frowned slightly, like he was trying to decide whether he smelled something bad.

"We have to dig up a pool cue," he said in flat disbelief, and Dean chuffed.

"Dude. No. Like a, you know, a mullet for old Chinese guys." He waggled a couple of fingers vaguely toward the back of his neck, but Sam still didn't seem to be tracking. Wasn't looking, anyhow. "We probably don't really have to, Sammy, but we might as well make sure Katie and Quon-Jin don't come back, or the Markhams, either. Then, I figure we do a generic cleansing ritual here at the hotel tomorrow morning, and that should take care of it."

"Melanie said she wanted ghosts."

"Yeah, well, she can't have these."

Sam came suddenly to life, scrubbing a hand over his face in unexpected vexation and meeting his brother's eyes across the table. "Wait—Agnes's _daughter_? I thought the Markhams didn't have any chi—Dean, could we just set the record straight, here? Since we got to Rattlesnake, you've pulled me out of a mine-shaft, been attacked by a psycho Casper, dispelled three ghosts and trashed a museum."

Dean had been looking pretty pleased, but at that last, he sobered. "Grace mentioned that, huh? C'mon, Sam. I needed those teeth."

"My point, Dean," Sam continued, his patience stretched to the limit, "is that you were supposed to be giving your knee a chance to heal."

"Hey, have I been driving my car? Did I even once get to see the real inside of the mine? Well, at the very end, yeah, but that wasn't _my_ fault, plus it's not like I had much chance to look around. And I gotta point out, Sammy, that it was your idea to come to Rattlesnake in the first place."

Sam's snort of laughter was dry and mirthless. "Yeah. And that worked out great, didn't it?"

"For some," Dean acquiesced instantly.

"Not for Steve."

"You saved his life, Sam. And you don't know that things aren't going to work out for him with the mine. There was ever a guy who could find the silver lining, he's it. Clancy's gone, now, and Erica already wrote the state inspection report, right? She's not gonna go back and change it—she's not gonna touch this place or anything to do with it ever again."

His brother had a point, Sam had to admit. Still, there was an awful lot about Rattlesnake that felt like defeat.

"I liked her," he said quietly after a moment, and Dean dropped his eyes.

"I know you did. I'm sorry."

The younger man smiled sadly. "She was smart and funny, and we hit it off pretty well, you know? I kind of felt like I might be ready."

Dean looked up at him through thick lashes, and Sam heard the unspoken question clearly.

"Ready to move on," he explained, eyes pinned now to a spot on the table between them. "After all this time, I thought it might _be_ time. You know, time to get past the past with Jessica and get on with my life."

He took in a deep breath; let it out on a gusting, humorless laugh. "Guess I was wrong. Good thing, too, because Erica sure hates me now."

Whatever Sam had felt for Erica, Dean was pretty sure she'd just been the warm-up, turning up the flames under the pressure-cooker. When Sam truly fell, finally let go…

"Mount St. Helens," Dean murmured.

"What?"

_Jesus, this kid was hard work_.

Dean's tone was earnest as he thumped a forefinger against the table-top, making sure he had his brother's attention. "Sam, none of what happened to Erica was your fault. You know that, right? Bull Clancy should've been gone, and Steve told me she's the one who asked him to take her that far down into the mine in the first place. But, man, the real thing is that she just wasn't right for you. If she had been, then tonight would've gone a helluva lot differently. Yeah, she's bright and you liked hanging out with her. But then, what happened, _happened_, and she couldn't deal. That's not the kind of woman for you, man. And you can't just rush these things—you know that, Sammy. Not the real ones, anyway. When the time's right, and when the girl's right, then it's gonna go a lot different for you, I swear. You'll get there. Soon."

The younger Winchester shook his head, still refusing to meet his brother's eyes. "I don't know, man. Maybe."

"No 'maybe' about it, trust me on this. And in the meantime? You got enough things trying to beat up on you without you doing it to yourself, so go easy, okay? Cut yourself some slack."

Sam twitched a skeptical half-smile, but Dean could see he was coming around, especially when the smile turned sheepish and Sam looked up, at last catching his brother's gaze.

"Yeah. Okay. Hey, Dean—" Sam reddened slightly. "Um…."

Dean waved a dismissive hand, scoffing magnanimously. "Dude. I'm the oldest. Where else you gonna learn this stuff?"

Sam's dimples deepened, smile stretching across his face. _Now_, Dean thought. _Now the smile was genuine. Good work, Winchester._

"Come on," he said, jerking his head toward the door. "We've got some graves and a temple to desecrate tonight."

"'We'?" Sam responded wryly. "I'll be doing the digging, man—you're not even getting out of the car. You can just boss me around from the back seat."

All innocence, Dean slapped a hand against his right thigh. _Ouch._ "Knee's fine, Sam. You're the one who's been doin' all the heavy lifting, this gig. I've just been sittin' around on my ass, tryin' to heal."

As he rose from the table, Sam's laugh had a bit more strength to it. "Yeah, tell me about it. So, we dig up the cemetery, and then what? We're gonna stay 'til next Thursday when the Markhams get back, right?"

Dean shrugged, putting the lines back above his brother's brows. "I think we're pretty much done with Rattlesnake, don't you?"

"Dean. What about, you know—Grace?"

There was no need to tell Sammy that Grace had called just after she got home; had told Dean that Sam was all right, but hurting. He'd thanked her, and she'd thanked him, and before they'd said goodnight, they'd both realized that what they were really saying was goodbye.

"_I'm thinking about how I might prove that Quon-Jin and Delilah Reardon were innocent," she had said. "I mean, after all these years…."_

_Dean had chuckled. "Not like you're going to find any eye-witnesses, right? I don't know, Grace. You know the truth, now, and I'm not sure there's anybody left who's hurtin' because the town history's got it wrong. Honestly, sometimes what's dead should just stay dead."_

_There had been a brief pause then, and when Grace had finally asked, "What if it's something just being born?" Dean had known that she meant them.__The two of them, at the beginning of something that maybe had possibilities, maybe had a future._

_It was just that this thing with Sam, whatever it was, _that_'s what Dean had to devote himself to right now. To Sam, and keeping him safe. Until Yellow-Eyes was sent to Hell for good, until this goddamned Winchester darkness was truly and finally over, Dean's focus had to be on his family. What little was left of it, anyway. _

_Because his family was Sam, and Sam was the most important thing of all. _

"_I'm sorry, Grace," he'd said, and part of him had meant it, and part of him hadn't. "It's just that right now—well, I'm sorta lookin' after my brother right now. We lost our dad not too long ago, and Sam…well, Sammy's kind of a special case, and I've got to watch out for him."_

"_Ohhh." There was sudden realization in the single word, as if she'd heard nothing of what he'd said and yet understood everything clearly now. "It's about what you do, isn't it, Dean? Your duty to your brother, what happened today at the joss house, what happened today at the mine—they're all connected somehow, aren't they? They're like your job, or—no. Oh, Dean, no. It's more than that. They're like your _life_."_

_Her perception and empathy had shaken him, and this time the pause had been longer. _

"_Well…" he'd begun, and Grace had taken him off the hook with a sad little laugh._

"_It's too bad you're not really with the Weather Service," she'd said quietly. "Then maybe we'd have had a chance."_

"_I'm sorry, Grace," he'd told her again. "I really am."_

"_Oh, Junjei. Of all people, I understand responsibility to your family. Really, I do. So, please—take care of your brother, and be well."_

"_Yeah. Yeah—you, too, Xiuying. You be well, too."_

Now, lips pursed, the older man shrugged again. "Nice girl, great looking, but I'm good to go, Sammy."

Perplexed, Sam examined his brother for a moment, not quite sure what was happening.

"There's nothing wrong with taking a break and letting your knee mend, Dean," he said. "You need some time to really heal. What's going on with you?"

"Nothin'," his brother replied uncomfortably, looking away, voice rising in a way that surely meant there was something.

Sam frowned again, crossing his arms over his chest and standing imperviously. He wasn't going to move until he got an answer, and he knew Dean knew it.

"It's Grace," he said certainly, couching his concern with humor, knowing it was his only chance at dragging the truth from his equally stubborn brother. "Something happened with Grace, or _didn't_ happen with Grace. She turned you down. No—she asked you to move in with her. She's pregnant and her father hates you. Oh, God, you've fallen in love with her, so you're running!"

Dean rolled his eyes. _Freakin' emo little brother thinks he's a comedian_. "Ha ha. It's not Grace. Like I said, she's a great girl, and I wouldn't have minded spending some more time with her, but—Sam, don't you think it's kind of weird?"

Sam's brows climbed his forehead.

_Okay, that one was out of left field._

"What?"

"What?"

The younger Winchester sighed. _It was definitely--well, probably--Grace, and Dean wasn't going to talk about it_.

"What's weird, Dean?"

"Rattlesnake! This tiny little town, it's got nothin' goin' for it, nothin' goin' on—"

"Not any more," Sam cut in, and Dean gave him the point.

"Right, not any more. But all the people, man, the families—they're all the _same_! Dead people, living people—they've all hung out in Rattlesnake for, like, generations. It's like this place kinda sucks you in, and then just doesn't let you go. I mean, look at 'em all—the Hartsons, the Markhams, the Chins? Been here forever, and they're gonna stay here forever." Dean shook his head. "Rattlesnake's cursed, man, I'm tellin' you. People stayin' in one town for so long? It's just not natural."

"Dude, it's _completely_ natural," Sam scoffed, reclaiming his seat. "There's nothing wrong with finding a place you really like and settling down there, Dean. A lot of people do that. A lot of people _want_ that."

His brother shuddered dramatically. "It's just too _permanent_ for me, man. I'd feel trapped—like all these people are _trapped_."

It was Sam's turn to shrug. "I don't think they see it that way. You and me—we just have a different perspective, is all."

"Yeah, well, my perspective says we get out of here in the morning, all right? Tonight we get the ritual done, dig up Katie and the Markhams and the pigtail; come daylight, we wash that friggin' yellow dust off my baby, and then we got three weeks to kill before we have to be anywhere. Me, I'd just as soon spend it on the road."

Brows furrowing, Sam shifted in his chair. "No! You need to see someone about your kn—wait. What? Where do we have to be in three weeks?"

"Bobby called right after you left the North Cedar, Sammy," Dean said at once, leaning forward eagerly and licking his lower lip, green eyes sparkling. "Said that last weekend, a hooker working the waterfront got killed and ended up in the bay. She's the latest of a handful in the past year or so. Any of this sounding familiar to you?"

Sam let his gaze wander while he thought. "San Francisco?" he said finally, hooked. "The missing hearts thing?"

"Yahtzee! After we pitched Bobby that maybe there was a pattern, he started lookin', too. Said another vic got ganked on Saturday. He thought, since we were already out here in Cali…"

Dean cocked his head, an enticing grin on his face, and Sam realized that it had been a while since he'd seen his brother so excited about a possible job, almost glowing as he gloated.

With a half-smile, Sam leaned forward, too. "And you think—"

"I think San Francisco might be looking at a werewolf, Sammy, and next full moon, you and me are going to hunt it down and kill it dead with a silver bullet to the heart. Trust me, little brother—this is just what the doctor ordered, for the both of us!"

_fin_

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_Thank you so much for reading "Rush." Comments are welcomed._

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_A/N: I have apparently spent a ridiculously long time being perturbed by "Heart." Well, not "Heart," really, but by Sam and his whole head-over-heels plunge into--whatever. Lust or love, take your pick and I won't argue. Anyway, as far as I was concerned, Sammy's storyline in that ep lacked sufficient background, sufficient motivation. For some reason, it gnawed at me, that lack.... _

_Then, last spring, toward the end of S3 with Dean's clock ticking down and his approaching death too horrific to even consider, I happened to visit the old family homestead in Gold Country. This required driving long stretches of Highway 49 for maybe the millionth or billionth time, and everything was coated in pollen as thick as I'd ever seen. I had Metallica on the iPod and Winchesters on the brain; somewhere along the road's snaky curves through the heart of the Mother Lode, inspiration came in a rush. (But, goodness, it's been a long time reaching fruition!)_

_Thank you so much, all of you who encouraged me with your supportive, constructive feedback, or who alerted me or this story, or who read some of my other work. I have really appreciated it very, very much. Here's to you, and here's to our boys! _


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